


Poison Ground, Hallowed Heart

by 13Kat13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Auror Harry Potter, But dw it's clearly divided before it switches, But like so much smut, But the person isn't aware when they do it, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Curse Breaker Draco Malfoy, Curses, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, God there's so much filth in this, Happy Ending, Haunted Houses, Healer Pansy Parkinson, Like plenty of plot too that's important, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Self Harm, More like curse harm, POV Alternating, Smut, Soz if that's a spoiler I just need you to know it's gonna be okay fam, Switching, They're twenty-one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13Kat13/pseuds/13Kat13
Summary: And if Draco could make Harry Potter a religion he would. No doubt others have tried, but Draco would like to be his most devoted worshipper. He never thought he’d kneel for another after the humiliating and violating display that was him receiving his dark mark. But sweet Circe Harry just makes Draco want to prostrate himself at his feet. Draco’s always had a generous helping of pride, but it all melts away in the presence of this man. Merlin, this man. Draco’s so fucked.[Future fic set in a haunted house. Auror Harry is assigned to watch over Curse-Breaker Draco as he works to rid the Draganov Manor of its deadly curse. In the wilderness of Bulgaria, far away from England and all its baggage, one can start to see old enemies as something else.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Our Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839784) by [secretsalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsalex/pseuds/secretsalex). 



> *Falls down six flights of stairs and slams face-first into the Drarry fandom* s'up.
> 
> Okay so I read [In Our Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839784) by secretsalex and was inspired to write my own haunted house fic. This doesn't have any mpreg unlike In Our Blood though, so sorry if you were expecting it.
> 
> This is my first ever HP fanfic, so be gentle with me!
> 
> To my usual readers; your regular victuuri updates will resume as usual this weekend.

Draco has of course been raised to appreciate power. So the moment Harry Potter, twenty-one years old and now the most powerful wizard of the age, walks into the underground club, he can’t help but notice.

In truth, Draco has always noticed Harry. He just feels a little differently about it now. Now being when Harry’s gotten taller, broader in the shoulders, mop head hair its usual rat’s nest and signature round glasses firmly in place. He positively glows with power. It drips off him, thrums around him. He’s in sweeping robes of a green so dark it’s almost black. His eyes rake the club and its patrons with usual Auror precision; picking out exits, potential attackers, and suspect individuals alike.

Draco sits back in his chair.

The club is dark, smokey and exclusive. A regular haunt of his, it caters to only the most refined witches and wizards. There’s a slightly dangerous air about it, even as its patrons lounge in armchairs and over chaises, the aristocratic posture so gracefully lazy they mostly look bored.

There’s a blues singer at the front. A pretty asian woman with a victory curl and a floor length silver gown. She had winked at Draco as she leant against the bar earlier. Pity he’s every bit as bent as Potter is.

Harry, having spotted him, climbs the couple of steps raising Draco’s seating area from the rest of the club — a minor but important detail — and comes to stand in front of him without so much as an invitation. Draco’s lip curls. Though he wishes his fondness for Harry’s casual disregard of the way things are done here wasn’t quite so strong.

“Malfoy,” Harry greets, nodding shortly.

His tone’s not unfriendly, but it’s not quite friendly either. Carefully neutral is how Draco would describe it if he had to. He’s feeling Draco out.

“Potter,” Draco returns, then gestures to a free seat. “Please, sit.”

Harry looks a little surprised by the “please”, but Draco’s found that charm can be just as useful as scorn when applied right. And god does he want to apply it right for Potter.

“Would you like a drink?” Draco asks, holding up a hand, wrist loose as though the bid to gain attention barely needs his effort.

A waiter appears before he’s barely lifted a finger, his own hands clasped politely behind his back.

“Ah, just a water would be fine,” Harry assures the man, who disappears again so smooth and quick it’s as though he disapparated, though there are wards up against that sort of thing in here.

“So,” Draco starts, swirling his own brandy glass as he considers Harry, “to what do I owe the pleasure of our Saviour’s company?”

Harry winces at the name, and Draco tries to feel guilty. But at this point his acerbic wit is his only defense against just how good Harry’s looking at the moment.

“I’m in need of your… expertise,” Harry says delicately, and Draco feels a little proud that the man’s managed a small amount of the aristocratic way of dancing around the point. Harry usually gets straight to the point, not used to the pure-blood way of avoiding it.

“Ah,” Draco says, feigning disinterest. “So the Ministry’s having trouble with a curse?”

“Yes.”

Harry goes to say more, but at that point the waiter returns with his water, presenting it to him on a little tray with a slight bow. Harry takes it with thanks, and places it on the table. He waits for the man’s swift departure before he continues.

“There’s a house.”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“Indeed?”

“Yes. It’s an old stately home in Bulgaria. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, so the Bulgarian Ministry didn’t bother with it for a while. But, ah, there’s a village nearby, and the curse seems to be… spreading.”

Draco takes a sip of his brandy and places it on the armrest of his black leather chair.

“Yes, curses can do that,” he says, running a delicate finger around the rim of his glass.

“And this one’s vicious,” Harry goes on. “Has already killed two of the townsfolk, and seeing as it’s a muggle settlement, there’s a risk to the statute of secrecy. It was used by some of Grindelwald's lot when he was in power, so it’s been festering for quite some time.”

“I see,” Draco agrees thoughtfully. Then after a moment’s silence; “so what does this have to do with me?”

Harry blinks at him for a moment, and Draco fights the urge to smile. Harry’s just as gormless as the eleven year old in too big robes. Not that he’s a simpleton by any means. But he’s got a certain innocence about him — despite all he’s been through — that Draco envies and despises in equal measure. Draco doesn’t think he was ever been allowed to be innocent. Not with his parents.

“Well we’d need your help breaking the curse,” Harry says, as though this was obvious. Which of course it was, Draco just enjoys Harry asking for help too much to have said it himself.

Harry, annoyingly, doesn’t seem too phased about having to ask. The git.

“And I suppose you’re to accompany me to, what, keep an eye on me?”

See, although Draco escaped a term in Azkaban — unlike his father, who served ten months before he got out and started doing serious damage control — the ministry does like to keep an eye on him. It’s alright when he’s quietly in the country, they mostly turn a blind eye to the fact some of his dealing are a little… shady. But when he feels like taking a trip abroad, suddenly they’re all interested. Heavens knows why. You’d think they’d be more concerned with the goings on inside their own borders.

“That’s the idea, yes,” Harry says, with his usual bluntness.

Draco rolls his eyes.

“Well I suppose I don’t really have a choice in the matter,” Draco says blithely. “Not if the _Ministry_ wants it.”

He says the name of the institution with all his usual venom, but knows that Harry won’t be overly offended even if he does work for them. Potter’s always found the Ministry somewhat irksome. He just can’t resist being the hero enough to turn down a job as an Auror.

“So you’ll come?” Harry double checks, not having touched his water. Probably wise.

“Yes, I’ll come.”

Draco slips a card from his breast pocket and extends it to Harry between two fingers.

“That’s the charm for floo calling me,” Draco explains as Harry takes it, brow a confused little mew that has no right being as adorable as it is. “Not just anyone can floo my house. You have to have the key, which this is. Just in case you want to call.”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking stunned. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

He pockets the card, then takes out a scrap of paper to scribble down the details of their departure. He hands it to Draco, who looks it over with a raised brow.

“So soon?” he drawls, referring to their leaving date in two days time. “I’ll barely have time to get my affairs in order.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he stands, stuffing his hands in his robe pockets so the garment loses any credibility it had gained through its fine cut.

“I’ll see you then, Malfoy,” he says, turning to go.

“Good evening, Potter,” Draco returns, and watches Harry take his leave.

* * *

Two days later, despite his misgivings and slight annoyance at being assigned the case, Harry is staggering slightly as he and Draco arrive together on the front doorstep of the Draganov Manor. Draco’s a little more unsteady and falls against him, Harry dropping his bags to catch him.

Draco shrugs him off, looking annoyed, and gazes up at the grand front doors they’ve arrived before. Harry looks up too.

The doors, and what he can see of the manor, close enough to only see so much, are imposing. It has a sort of weight about it, much like the Malfoy Manor had, the one time Harry had been there.

But the Draganov Manor feels somehow more… toxic. The dark magic is evident, even if it’s not actively attacking them, seeming to seep from the house like a weeping wound.

The landscape is cold and barren at this time of year, it being October and the first snowfall of the year two months away, and the manor situated quite high up in the Bulgarian mountains. But Harry can see how it may be beautiful when it’s flushed green with summer or coated white with winter.

Draco steps forward to open the door and Harry gets out his wand.

“Don’t be silly, Potter, you won’t be needing that,” Draco snaps in his usual waspish manner, waving a hand at his bags so they spring up into the air to float alongside him.

“It’s leaking dark magic, Malfoy,” Harry points out. “What’s to say it won’t have a stab at whoever dares set foot inside?”

Draco rolls his eyes for what must be the upteenth time since they met up this morning, and briefly takes out his own wand to tap the door handle, which admits them at the key charm Draco mutters.

The door swings open.

The foyer is dark beyond the door, a slight smell of must and disuse emanating out to where they’re standing. Harry charms up his own bags, but does not stow his wand as he follows Draco inside.

The door swings shut behind them of its own accord, and Harry only just manages to stop himself from jumping.

“Old houses,” Draco says fondly, snapping his fingers so his bags vanish, no doubt sent to the upper floors. “They’re practically sentient.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Harry huffs, sending his own bags away with a click of his own.

“Not really,” Draco says with an elegant shrug. “Helpful in fact, if there’s no house elves about to light the lamps et cetera.”

Harry tells himself that Hogwarts was in fact a very old building, which had felt _very_ sentient at times, and he didn’t find it creepy. But the Draganov Manor is different. The place itches with something poisonous, and Harry tries not to let it show how it bothers him as they go to explore.

Draco claims the largest bedroom, which suits Harry just fine as he finds that room creepy, what with all the snake motifs. He himself chooses a room a few doors down, so they’re not on top of each other, but close enough to be easily accessed if the other is at all troubled by the house.

Harry’s room is grand, but a little cosier than Draco’s. It’s walls are a deep burgundy, a chandelier illuminating a stately four poster bed, a writing desk, a chaise, a large wardrobe, and a fireplace.

It’s nice compared to the rest of the house, though still a little gloomy for Harry’s tastes. It reminds him quite a bit of Grimmauld Place, which he still owns but never uses, having bought himself a flat in London, which isn’t huge, but manages not to be small either. A perfect cosy little balance.

Draco comes down for dinner in the most informal dress Harry’s seen him in thus far, and it’s still uptight, nothing like the knitted jumper and jeans Harry’s in. Draco’s crisp white shirt is perfectly tailored, tucked into a pair of slim fit black jeans which highlight the length of his slender legs. His long hair is lose, no parting visible exactly, more just pushed over to one side carelessly in a way that softens him, reveals one side of his sharp jaw, his high, angular cheekbones, his smooth, unblemished skin.

Harry has to admit that he’s never found Draco anything less than stunningly beautiful, even when he was being a giant twat back at Hogwarts. But there’s something about him now, his maturity, the release of his usual rudeness, that makes him very attractive indeed. That’s not to say he’s _polite,_ god no. Harry suspects Draco would rather die than be seen as anything other than icy, and that extends to his manners. But he actually says please and thank you now, and every now and then, if Harry tries really hard, he can get him to make something that’s almost a smile as they eat together.

Harry’s cooked, the house having no elves to do it for them, and Harry being somewhat idle as Draco had started his inspection of the curse upon the manor. Draco considers the homely food — a chicken and mushroom pie — down his long nose, looking mildly displeased, but apparently having changed enough not to remark aloud what a far cry Harry’s cooking is from his usual diet. And when Draco actually takes a bite he looks a little surprised, which Harry interprets as unforeseen enjoyment.

As the evening wears on and they drink more and more of the wine Draco selected from the very impressive wine cellar, it becomes less hard work for Harry to get Draco to give him that almost smile. His face seems to fight it at first, like it’s not used to the expression, but then his mouth softens, and yes, there’s the tilt at the corners.

See Harry’s actually quite funny. Ron has always been the funniest of their trio, but Harry’s always had a somewhat sharp humour, dry and a little cutting, that Draco seems to appreciate. It’s not too far off Draco’s own acerbic humour after all, which is sharp enough to cut if he wants it to. But he stows his knife of a tongue for the evening, his remarks just cruel enough to make Harry laugh, but gentle enough that they don't tip over into rudeness.

And isn’t this something? The easy company, how they seem to bounce off each other, the conversation easy but keeping them on their toes enough to be interesting.

They finish the evening being, if not friends, then maybe acquaintances. Something they couldn’t even call themselves before now.

Harry climbs into bed with a smile on his face, thinking of the slightly crooked tilt of Draco’s mouth as he smiled.

Harry should’ve known then, that he never stood a chance.

* * *

At first, Harry stays out of Draco’s way, busying himself with making the house livable, though Draco suspects it’ll never be welcoming to someone like him, so unused to such places. Harry so obviously doesn’t belong it’s laughable. His casual muggle clothes, untidy hair and general carefree nature don’t belong in a pure-blood manor. To Draco, the Draganov Manor is practically a mirror image of his ancestral home, which he has fond memories of from his mother at least, if not his father.

Once the house seems to somewhat take over the work on its own, sensing perhaps that they’re here to stay and maybe wanting to help them do so — which isn’t ominous at all — there’s not much for Harry to do.

It’s at this point that he takes an interest in Draco’s work, seeming to genuinely enjoy watching him at it. And then he’s constantly underfoot.

“Potter,” Draco snaps, only just managing to reign in the venom that he would’ve unleashed back when they were teenagers.

Harry steps quickly back from where he’s been hovering at Draco’s elbow as Draco draws counter curses and charms in the air.

“Sorry,” Harry says, sounding genuinely apologetic and looking a little sheepish. Merlin, does the man have to be so downright desirable at all times?

Draco feels his annoyance leak away, and sighs.

“It’s alright,” he says, his voice softer than he ever would’ve used years back. “Just… give me some space to work.”

“Of course.”

Harry hurries to sit over on the sofa, back straight and folding his hands in his lap like a scolded little boy. Draco fights to suppress a smile.

Harry watches him work in silence, until he can’t help but ask a question, the query bursting out of him after ten minutes. Draco doesn’t mind. Harry seems so genuinely interested that it’s flattering more than annoying.

As their second week comes to an end, they form a somewhat unlikely camaraderie between them. It’s not as though they’re completely incompatible after all, and Draco has to admit it was probably largely his fault that they weren’t friends in school. Though Harry’s not completely without blame. The twerp.

They toast the beginning of the third week over another of Harry’s dinners, which, Draco has to admit, although a little rustic, isn’t half bad.

As they open another bottle and retire to the games room, Draco’s feeling pleasantly buzzed. Not tipsy or anything, just relaxed enough that he doesn’t try to stop his eyes from drinking in the sight of Harry’s pert backside as he goes ahead of him to take their usual after dinner seats by the fire.

The conversation’s easy as ever, light but with interesting little dips in it. And as it wears on Draco finds his gaze wandering, admiring Harry’s long legs, more muscular than his own, thicker in the thigh and calf, sprawled in front of Harry as he sits slid down in his armchair. His knitted sweater has ridden up slightly to expose a strip of golden skin, and Draco lets himself look with the few glasses of wine muddling his judgement.

When Draco finally manages to drag his eyes away from Harry’s admittedly very nice body to look at his face, he finds Harry’s watching him oggle him with a smirk. Draco can’t muster up the energy to be embarrassed. Not after the food and the wine and a full two weeks of being around the very attractive, very powerful and admittedly very good company that is the Boy Wonder.

Draco wonders if he’d be feeling a little drunk even without the wine, just high on Harry’s presence.

The moment passes however, and as they chat he revels in his ability to make Harry laugh. It’s a good laugh. Full and unrestrained, coming deep from Harry’s body and rising up in him to light his face up and throw his head back.

“...then he pointed his wand at me,” Draco’s saying, “and says ‘stop or I’ll jinx your balls off, fucking faggot!’”

Harry snorts, perhaps having experienced similar slurs as a famously queer wizard. Draco’s not actively out himself beyond his casual shags, but some people just seem to guess anyway.

“And I say, ‘you seem to have a rather intense interest in my balls if you’re so against shagging men’.”

Harry laughs that wonderful laugh of his and Draco grins before he continues.

“And then I jumped.”

Harry’s eyes go wide.

“What, right over the edge of the dam?!”

“Indeed,” Draco confirms, swirling his wine and holding it up to the firelight to consider the legs.

“But it was a fifty foot drop!” Harry exclaims, looking satisfyingly awed. “Did you cast a cushioning charm?”

“No,” Draco says, letting the statement rest for a beat before he says, “I summoned my broom. It caught me thirty foot down and I was able to avoid turning into pure-blood scrambled eggs.”

“Impressive,” Harry allows, and Draco resists the urge to preen. It’s high praise from the man whose power he can practically taste.

“Nothing to what you could do without raising a finger, I’m sure,” Draco returns, raising a perfect brow at Harry.

Harry frowns and shakes his head.

“I’d have to do a little more than raise a finger,” he says.

“Hmm, not what I heard.”

Draco stands. Harry looks up at him as he sweeps forward and comes to a halt in front of him. And isn’t it funny, how the most powerful wizard of the age is sitting there in a pair of ratty jeans and a hand knitted jumper no doubt courtesy of Molly Weasley?

Harry’s skin is golden brown in the firelight, his mixed race painting him several shades darker than Draco, who’s so pale he’s practically transparent. They’re silver and gold, fresh snow and sunlight. The unusual combination of tanned skin and freckles is intoxicating, bright green eyes gazing up at Draco in question. Draco’s never seen eyes quite as green as Harry’s. Usually they’re more muddy, but Harry’s are a vibrant hue.

“What would if feel like, I wonder,” Draco says, voice soft, like this is something intimate, and he sees how Harry’s eyes go a little wide with it, “if you let me feel it?”

Harry swallows, his throat clicking audibly.

“Feel it?” Harry asks, voice equally soft as he gazes up at Draco half curious, half something… else.

“Your power,” Draco explains, and Harry’s eyes go fearful. “Would it tear me apart?”

“Yes.”

The word is so final and sure that Draco shivers with it, arousal unspooling in his gut like a rope untied. His eyes slip closed momentarily, and when he opens them, he sees Harry’s own eyes have gone dark as they watch him. Draco smirks.

“Interesting,” he says. “Goodnight, Potter.”

Harry looks surprised by the abrupt dismissal, but Draco’s already turning to go.

“Wait —“ Harry starts, half risen from his chair.

Draco pauses.

“I — nothing,” Harry sighs after a moment, collapsing back into the armchair.

Draco allows himself a private smile once he’s properly turned away, and leaves.

* * *

The house is being very reasonable. Which is unsettling. It’s been a month and there’s still been no threat against their lives. It’s like it’s lulling them into a false sense of security, crouched ready to pounce. Harry doesn’t like it, and from the little furrow of Draco’s brow as he studies the wards, he doesn’t either.

“What do you think it’s waiting for?” Harry asks him, sprawled on the floor of the drawing room as Draco stands in the center of the room, looking up at the ceiling with his hands on his narrow hips.

There’s frost on the mountains outside and creeping over the windows, and they have a fire roaring in the hearth. It’s very cosy.

Harry saw the beginnings of Christmas lights in the village on one of his outings, which Draco sometimes accompanies him on, and decided they had to have a tree of their own. It stands in the corner now, a huge thing, sparkling with lights and pretty glass baubles Draco had taken a shine to.

“For us to relax fully,” Draco replies. “Let our guard down so it can strike with the most damage… though maybe it’s just lonely. Sometimes houses can get tired of being empty if they’re very old. They get somewhat… wise. It may not want to do anything to us. Or get confused trying to make us stay and end up hurting us instead. Sometimes curses can be like that.”

“You sound almost like you’re talking about an innocent child,” Harry says, considering the thoughtful lines of Draco’s face as they shift to surprise, registering what Harry said. “Like it doesn’t know any better. But this is dark magic, it was made to do damage.”

“Perhaps,” Draco agrees, but Harry can tell he’s not convinced.

Then he crumples gracefully to the floor with a sigh, sprawling out just like Harry’s doing. Harry’s never seen him look so casual. Draco’s always so poised.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks, leaning up on his elbows to look at Draco where he’s spread out on the rug. His hair is a pale pool of white blonde around his head.

“Might as well observe from down here,” Draco replies. “You looked comfortable enough.”

Harry considers him for a moment, then rolls over onto all fours and crawls over to him. He flops down above Draco so their heads are side by side, feet away from each other. He sees Draco’s head roll to look at him out of the corner of his eye upside down, but keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

“Well hello,” Draco drawls, amusement tickling his voice.

Harry grins, and rolls his own head to face him.

“Thought I’d help,” he lies, knowing he doesn’t have the skill to spot the curse lines the way Draco does. He can feel the dark magic, get snatches of it, but Draco’s the one with the trained eye.

“Oh yeah?” Draco says, corner of his mouth ticking up in a way that tells Harry he sees through the lie easily.

“Mhmm.”

Draco’s almost grinning, but his face is doing the thing where it fights it, and he turns back to look at the ceiling.

“What do you see?” Harry asks softly, moments after Draco starts waving a hand above him, stirring up the curse lines with wandless magic.

“It’s certainly tainted… but it doesn’t feel bad. I don’t know if that’s another attempt to make me relax my guard though. It does feel lonely though. Not that that’s a good thing. Could try and kill us so we have to stay forever as ghosts or something.”

“That’s a cheery thought.”

“Just telling it like it is.”

They lapse back into silence, Draco’s hand still drawing shapes above them. It’s kind of wonderful watching him work.

Harry’s head lulls back to look at Draco’s profile, the thin lips, delicate nose, sharp cheekbones. He knows Draco feels him looking. After a moment, Draco turns his head too.

And Harry lets Draco see the desire in his eyes, the way Harry drinks in the sight of him.

Draco swallows.

“What?” he asks, voice gentle and with just a hint of something almost like nervousness. Not that Draco would ever admit to being nervous about anything.

“Just… you,” Harry says, the confession soft, finally hanging between them, incomplete but weighty with meaning.

“Me?”

Draco’s voice is uncertain, none of his usual confidence present, though he seems to try valiantly for it.

“Mmm… you,” Harry agrees.

Then he rolls to the side, so their bodies are at right angles to each other, Harry on his front, propped up on his elbows over Draco, their faces close.

Draco looks surprised and slightly apprehensive, but also like he doesn’t want Harry to stop. His breathing is short, pale cheeks a little flushed. Harry leans in, lets his lips hover over Draco’s for a moment before the plunge.

_“MMMMMMNNNNNNNNNUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”_

The screaming, agonised moan sounds like it’s being ripped out of some ancient, otherworldly beast buried in the centre of the universe and clawing its way out.

Harry and Draco leap apart, Harry scrambling to his feet, already reaching for his power.

* * *

The house sounds like it’s dying, and Draco, whose eyes had just started to slip close in anticipation for the kiss that never comes, jumps and scrambles into a sitting position.

Harry’s already up, and his power slams out from him although his wand is not even in his hand. He’s positioned himself between Draco and the door, body tensed like a spring, stance protective as though he can shield Draco with his body. Which he probably can, no matter how bad the curse is. This man is strong. Draco feels it as his power crashes against the walls, batters the door to keep it closed and keep them safe. It’s a shield charm, the strongest Draco’s ever felt, encompassing the whole room.

Then Draco feels something else. The shield is coalescing around _him_ specifically, strongest around Draco’s body, like it’s the most important thing for Harry to protect.

And Draco feels one last thing, though this one’s entirely inside him. It blooms up in his chest, like flowers is spring, a flood bursting a carefully built dam, a bird soaring free from a cage.

He infatuated with this man. Christ he's obsessed and they’ve only been here a bloody month. That’s far too fast to fall like this. They’ve not even kissed yet. Circe, no, Draco can't feel like this. Infatuation. Heady lust for one so obviously thrumming with power. But not actually _love._ It can’t be. Malfoys are never so impulsive. That’s a Gryffindor trait, not a Slytherin one.

No. It's Harry's power he likes. It must be. And an appreciation of good looks. That’s all this is. Draco won’t lie and say that it couldn’t be more given time. But he won’t let himself think it’s... it's so deep at this stage. He refuses to.

“Harry,” he croaks, voice hoarse with how he feels.

And he watches Harry turn his upper body towards him slightly to look over his shoulder, still poised towards the door as though to face down whatever threat is lurking on the other side. His stance is protective, the line of his shoulders, the clench of his stomach. And Draco sees surprise in Harry’s eyes, and realises it’s the first time he’s called Harry by his given name. It’s the most important insignificant detail.

“Harry,” he says again, because he can and he thinks it might help Harry reign in that wild look in his eyes, like he’s about to lose his grasp on that almighty power of his. “It’s just the house, Harry, reacting to my curse breaking charms. It doesn’t like them, but I don’t think it’s a threat.”

“You don’t _think?”_ Harry says, disbelief in his tone. “Draco, I can’t let my guard down for _think._ You’ve got to _know.”_

It’s a fair point. The house has killed people after all.

Draco nods, trying to push back down the warmth that wants to blossom again at the sound of his own given name in Harry’s mouth. So perfect. It fits just right and rolls off his tongue so smooth. Like their mouths were made for saying each other’s names… maybe doing other things together too. He gets slowly to his feet.

“Come on,” Draco says, reaching out and placing a soothing hand on Harry’s arm. It’s the right choice. Harry stares down at the hand, so starkly white against his own skin, looking surprised, but seems grounded by the touch. “I won’t be able to know for sure unless you drop the barrier. There’s no way for me to tell what the threat level is when literally not even a hint can get through.”

“A hint can sometimes be all it takes,” Harry growls, and Draco tries valiantly not to love the danger in his voice, not to bite his lip with it.

“Just… you have to trust me with this, Harry.”

And that makes Harry look up, find Draco’s gaze and meet it with his own. Draco knows he’s asking for a lot. Trust? With all they’ve done to each other? But things are different now, with this thing growing between them, and it doesn’t seem impossible. Stranger things have happened.

Harry searches Draco’s eyes, looking for any hint of fear or doubt. He must find reassurance or something, because a moment later he nods, and the protective shield around Draco and the room drops away.

Nothing happens when the shield drops, and Draco uses his wand because this is going to take proper concentration and an extra fine touch. He doesn’t want to botch this and have Harry go nuclear.

There is something there. Draco frowns, feeling along the wriggly, sinuous thing he detects. But it doesn’t seem malevolent. Draco tries to reason that he knows curses well, and he doesn’t think this is the house fooling him into believing its safe this time. He has a taste for it, like a fine wine connoisseur but with dark magic.

Draco walks across the room to the wall where he feels the thing most keenly, Harry close at his elbow. The hall is on the other side of the wall, the door just beside it. Draco lays a hand against it, feels whatever it is twitch in response to his touch.

_There._

“Got it,” Draco says, smirking, pleased with himself. “We won’t be needing another shield.”

“You sure?” Harry asks. Draco throws him a look.

It’s a testament to the fact that he must trust Draco after all, because Harry doesn’t throw up another shield.

“It’s adjusting,” Draco explains. “Reacting to our presence, and my start at trying to fix it. It’s not really damaged in any way, that’ll take far longer. It’s just stretching itself, molding itself anew to try and counter my attack.”

“So it knows you’re attacking it?” Harry asks, sounding not at all pleased by this.

“Hm not exactly,” Draco replies, looking back to the deep green satin of the wall. “It’s not actually _truly_ sentient. At least not in any way we’d understand. So to say it understands things like attacks wouldn’t be right. It’s more… used to adjusting. I think it sort of sees it like a game. Or a new curiosity. It wants to feel us out. Maybe let us in a bit. Might help actually. By the time it realises our intention it may be too late for it.”

Harry’s silent, and Draco turns back to him to see him frowning at the wall.

“I don’t like it,” he states, sounding somewhat childish.

Draco rolls his eyes.

“Yes, well, that’s the point of a curse. You’re not supposed to enjoy it.”

Harry’s eyes flick to his.

“I —”

He cuts himself off, looking uncertain and then frowning.

“What?” Draco pushes, curious as to the little battle he sees raging in Harry’s mind.

“I don’t like it near you,” he says, sounding grumpy. “I think it likes you too much and I… I’d rather not lose you to it.”

It’s the most honest thing he’s said, along with his earlier confession of _“Just… you.”_

Draco feels his cheeks heat a little, and knows his pale skin makes the blush stand out over the bridge of his nose and high on his cheekbones. Damn his complexion. Completely ruins his reputation for being icy and indifferent.

Harry of course, looks delighted. He grins that most endearing lopsided smile as he watches the heat bloom in Draco’s cheeks, drinking in the sight of it.

Then Harry’s grabbing him, hauling him in, and _kissing the life out of him._

And holy Circe that old cliche of fireworks and stars and a hundred angels singing is really not even close to doing this justice, but it’s all Draco can think of as Harry’s mouth moves over his. Hot and slick and just a little filthy.

Harry kisses like he does everything in life; full of passion and heedless of the consequence, diving in head first and just hoping he doesn’t shatter into a million pieces at the bottom.

Oh but Draco feels like he’s shattering. He flew apart the moment they touched lips and then reformed around their point of contact, like a star imploding in on itself.

He feels alive and so very good, a hundred percent certain of himself and comfortable in his own skin for perhaps the first time in his life.

Draco kisses him back of course. Giving into it with a groan, his hands coming up to tangle in that rat’s nest hair, knocking Harry’s glasses askew, mouth parting open on a gasp so Harry’s tongue can slide against his. Harry pulls him flush and Draco lets him, presses himself close, his hips pushed forward so that they’re panting, aware of each other starting to get hard through their clothes.

They break apart after several long moments, breathless and gasping, cheeks flushed and dazed.

Draco is very pleased by the mess he’s reduced Harry to. His glasses are wonky, his hair’s even more of a mess than usual, and his eyes are hazy with desire. He looks wrecked and wanton, like Draco’s unleashed some sort of beast that’s been chained. And it needs blood. Draco shivers with it.

From the look on Harry’s face, he too likes whatever Draco looks like, so Draco knows he can’t be faring much better.

“Do you want to…?” Harry starts, but Draco shakes his head.

“Just this for now,” he says, because though he can admit he’s mad for bloody Harry Potter of all people, he also wants to savour it a little. He’s not a Slytherin for nothing, and good things come to those who wait.

Harry looks torn, biting his lip in a most distracting way, but he nods.

“Just this,” he agrees easily.

So they kiss again.

* * *

Draco is, predictably, annoyingly good at kissing. He does it with such passion, but also with a healthy dose of skill, losing himself but not enough so he’s heedless of the other person’s pleasure. He seems to enjoy turning Harry’s brain to mush, and takes the opportunity to do it often for the rest of the day after the first time.

He seats himself on Harry’s lap when they retire to their usual post-dinner armchairs in the games room, sitting there like Harry’s his personal throne. Harry grins at him like a loon.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Draco says, his tone haughty but a twinkle in his eye and a lift to his lips.

“Oh I am,” Harry replies smoothly, running his hands greedily up Draco’s slender thighs. “See I can reduce the great Draco Malfoy, a pure-blood of the famous twenty-eight, to a panting, flushed mess, who makes the prettiest noises because of my mouth.”

“Shut up,” Draco says, with no bite and a smile tucked in there as he gives Harry’s shoulder a shove.

Harry has never wanted anything this badly in his life.

They chat and make out. Harry even gets around to telling him that he was almost sorted into Slytherin, something he doesn’t share with just anyone.

Draco laughs so hard he nearly falls off Harry lap, who catches him. Then he sobers, his smile slipping as his gaze goes far off. Then his cheeks pink just a little.

“What?” Harry asks, unable to help his grin at the sight of the slight blush. Draco never fully goes red, just gets this pretty light dusting across his nose and cheeks. It’s wonderful and Harry has to resist the urge to press his lips to it, see if it feels as warm as it looks.

“Just… you in Slytherin robes,” Draco explains, then quickly shuts himself up, looking just a tad flustered. It’s not a look Harry thought he’d ever get to see on the ever so composed Draco Malfoy.

“Mm, do you like the idea?” Harry says, voice low with intent, giving Draco’s hip a squeeze.

Draco huffs and glares at him, but Harry can’t help himself. He leans in, still grinning.

“Maybe I’d have been in your dorm,” Harry murmurs in Draco’s ear. “Sometimes I have bad dreams, and maybe I’d need a little comfort in the night… slip into your bed… hot and needy… want to put my hands on you…”

“Merlin, Potter, cut it out.”

The returned hiss of his surname tells Harry Draco’s in danger of being actually annoyed, so he laughs and backs off, not wanting to tease enough for Draco to turn on him.

They don’t say a word about their sleeping arrangements, but Draco comes and crawls into Harry’s bed that night as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. Which is both absurd and completely expected. Much like them.

They whisper to each other for a while, though there’s really no reason to keep their voices down, other than it being nice. The only light is that from the fireplace and the only sound their low voices and the howl of the wind outside, the house creaking occasionally.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry says when he feels the other man start to pool into him where he’s splayed across his chest.

“Mmnnn… night,” Draco replies sleepily, and moments later he’s breathing deeply.

Harry smiles, and soon after he slips off too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos for the last chapter! :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Draco feels a certain… pull from the house. It’s like it’s asking him to come play. And after a few nights of sleeping in Harry’s bed, making out heavily before they lay off, panting and flushed, Draco heeds its call, and slips out from between the sheets while Harry sleeps on.

His bare feet whisper along the rug as he grabs a robe and his wand, wrapping the robe around him as he whispers _“Lumos.”_

The house seems to sigh as he steps out into the corridor, welcoming him. Draco clutches his robe closer, shivering slightly, and mutters a quick warming charm. His muscles loosen when it floods through him, relaxing into the heat. Draco raises his wand a little, its pool of light making a portrait of a young woman look up from where she’s hanging on the corridor wall, and then he sets off.

The portraits don’t speak, apparently they haven’t for the last eighteen years, and Draco thinks it’s probably the house, not wanting them to warn or give away its secrets.

The wind howls outside, and Draco catches a glimpse of the blizzard raging outside as he passes a window. What if they get snowed in? Well it’ll certainly be romantic.

Draco wanders the house for a while, not really sure what he’s looking for and wondering if the house is going to maybe give him a clue. After a little while of nothing happening, he’s just starting to think he should probably go back to bed, slip in next to Harry and absorb some of Harry’s sleep warmth. Maybe place kisses along his bare shoulder, tuck a hand into his pyjama pants, give the Boy Wonder a little of what he obviously so desperately wants… when a door creaks open ahead of him. Draco frowns.

He’s on the top floor, only the attic above him, up where the servants would have slept, when the house still could brag of having that sort of thing along with house elves. The door is at the end of the corridor, and leads to a little bedroom.

Draco can hear his own breathing, a little shorter than usual as his heart thumps away in growing apprehension. He hesitates for a moment… then goes forth.

The room is small, probably a child’s or the youngest servant of the manor’s. There’s a narrow bed with floral sheets, the curtains in matching material. There’s a doll on the shelf, so perhaps it was indeed a child’s. Draco tries not to find its dead eyes creepy.

There’s nothing remarkable about the room, and he’s just about to turn back to go do what he was thinking about doing to Harry, when his wand lights on a box poking out from beneath the bed. Draco frowns.

The box, once he’s knelt and pulled it out, is nothing fancy. Just plain, varnished wood. But like all hidden curiosities, it’s got an air of mysticism about it that’s irresistible. Draco wonders whether there’s a curse on it, ready to bite off the fingers of whoever dares try and open it. It’s certainly possible, but he does a quick detection charm and can’t see anything. He flips open the lid.

Thankfully, nothing happens when the box opens. Just the light of the wand now spilling over photographs. Draco picks one up.

It’s a family. They’re dressed in old fashioned clothes, perhaps from the days of Grindelwald. They’re unsmiling, as people usually are in photographs from that time. They blink, and shift slightly in the picture, but are otherwise still and poised.

There’s a husband and wife, severe but beautiful. They remind Draco somewhat of his own parents, though they have dark hair where his own are as blonde as he is. Their daughter is pale and willowy. She looks to be about twenty and unlike her parents is fair, her golden blonde hair a few shades darker than Draco’s own. She has a friendly face, looks the closest to smiling out of all of them, like she’s had to control herself for this shot. Her mother’s hand lies on her shoulder where she sits on an armchair with her parents stood behind her. Her own hand is resting on top of her mother’s, friendly and familiar. They’re obviously close.

They’re clearly not servants by their dress and manner. Hardly anyone had photos taken of them back then anyway, only important people. Draco wonders what the box is doing in what is obviously a servant’s room.

In the next photo, the girl seems to be thinner. She seems to try to be looking happy, but mainly looks tired. Her parents’ expressions are strained with worry.

In the photo beneath that the girl is alone. The shot doesn’t look set up like the portraits before it. It looks like it was taken to document rather than preserve.

The girl is sat on the edge of a bed in a nightgown. She rocks herself slightly, her gaze distant as she stares at the wall. She’s lost more weight, her previously healthy face now sickly gaunt. Her eyes have deep bruises under them, as though she hasn’t slept for days.

In the next photo, the girl is in a dimly lit room. Her nightgown is dirty now, and her hair a mess. She’s crouched in a corner, like an animal. Her hair hangs over her face, concealing it as she sits side on.

After a moment, she seems to notice the photographer, and looks up. Her eyes are haunted. Wild.

Then she launches herself at the photographer, her lips drawn back in a snarl. And the photo goes shaky and dark for a moment before two wizards come and drag the girl off the photographer, pulling her kicking and screaming away.

It’s the last photo.

Draco lets them fall back into the box. He’s worried. This is evidence of the curse being active quite early on. He thought it’d gotten worse over time. But either this girl went mad on her own, or she was affected by the curse. He has a feeling it’s the latter. Draco shivers and looks around the shadowy room, trying to shake the feeling that he’s being watched.

There’s no more to find in the bedroom, and Draco wanders back to bed, deep in thought. He jumps when a grandfather clock tolls midnight and scolds himself internally, a hand to his chest. He’s not sure why the house showed him the photos. Surely, if it wants him to feel safe and secure here, it would have made efforts to hide them. But perhaps this is like another game for it. Tease him with fear. Make him wonder if they should leave, only to be drawn back to the mystery. Before it finally traps them forever.

The sight of Harry, sprawled on his front and hugging Draco’s pillow like he reached for him in his sleep, and subconsciously took whatever smelt like him instead, drives Draco’s worry from his mind. He’ll think about it in the morning, he decides, climbing back into bed.

Harry stirs slightly as Draco slips in close to him, making a sleepy kind of grumble, and abandoning the pillow in favour of drawing Draco himself close instead. Draco grins. Harry’s arms feel strong and sure around him, and he tries not to feel like some swooning witch with how safe he feels in them. Merlin. He’s never been some damsel in distress. But it’s admittedly nice having a big strong man wrapped around him. Especially one as powerful as Harry.

Draco, despite his earlier worries, falls asleep easily.

* * *

Draco wakes moments after Harry in the morning, always the light sleeper, though Harry had enjoyed watching him all relaxed and loose in his slumber. Draco always looks so carefree in sleep, seems to shuck off the slightly burdened look he carries with him in waking hours. Draco blinks awake however, and stretches like a cat, making his bare torso arch in the most distracting way. Harry leaves sucking kisses along the sleep warm skin of his shoulder, and Draco hums as Harry finds his neck.

Harry goes to kiss him, and Draco wrinkles his nose, his delicate sensibilities apparently offended by kissing with morning breath. So Harry rolls his eyes, and waves his hand in a charm to clean both their mouths out until they can brush them properly, and kisses him.

Draco hums, apparently pleased. Harry can feel it thrumming in Draco this morning. He’s needy, his body arching into Harry’s. Harry half wonders what's changed, whether Draco will stop them before they get further like he has before now. Regardless Harry slips over him, settles between his legs, and kisses down his throat.

Draco’s breathing is short as Harry makes his way down his body. Harry frowns when he gets to the scars slashed across Draco’s torso, Harry’s own work. Harry kisses them as though that’ll take them away, tries to erase the damage with his mouth, with his love. Draco, seeming to sense Harry’s pain, strokes his back and hushes him gently.

Draco’s obviously impatient as Harry reaches his stomach, so Harry rises back up and pushes his hips down, lets Draco feel his interest. He’s pleased to find Draco is also hard.

“Harry…” Draco sighs, beautifully breathless and eyes heavy with it.

Draco’s head falls back in surrender, and the supplication is so good that Harry’s suddenly all the way hard, cock pressing insistently against Draco’s through their pyjama pants as their bodies press together.

“Mmm… morning,” Harry replies, rolling his hips in a way that makes Draco gasp, before he leans down and sucks a kiss to the pale column of Draco’s throat.

Draco makes the most wonderful noise at this, and Harry starts to really grind their hips together. Draco’s own hips are responding, his feet planted on the mattress so he’s rolling up into Harry.

“God… Draco…” Harry groans, luxuriating in it as he tastes his skin, feels Draco’s cock slide up against his own.

His precome is starting to stain the front of his pyjama pants, so Harry pushes them down enough to free his cock. Draco blinks, pausing to look down. And Harry’s pleased to see him bite his lip.

“Very impressive, Potter,” Draco drawls, the tease of his surname a flirtation rather than a sign of annoyance this time as Draco’s eyes flick up to his.

He pushes down his own pyjama pants as Harry slides his hand over himself a few times, hovering over him. Draco’s cock comes free and he grips it. It’s not as thick as Harry’s but just as long, and Harry bites his lip at the sight.

Harry spells lube into his palm, and wraps his slicked hand around them both. They pant together as Harry starts to slide against Draco, their cocks hard and hot, just enough lube to make them slick but not dull the friction.

And it’s never felt like this, the hot exchange of kisses, two bodies coming together to drive the other mad. Harry wants to let it throttle him. Would gladly let this be his final act. He thinks for a moment of how his mind had drifted to Ginny when he walked into the Forbidden Forest to face his death. It had been painful, but Harry wonders if he’d have been able to do it if it had been Draco who he was leaving behind.

Draco’s writhing slightly, his shoulders twisting as his head gets pushed back against the pillow, his mouth slack and open as he starts to gasp and moan. His hair’s loose and spread out around his head, usually so tidy and sleek, it’s starting to look a little rumpled. And Draco’s skin is like marble in the morning light, those stunning grey eyes hazy.

“Yes, that’s it,” Harry encourages him, watching Draco come apart so prettily. “God, you’re so beautiful, fuck…”

He’s really fucking his cock up against Draco’s now, both of them slick with precome as well as lube. The friction is delicious, lighting Harry up like a livewire. And Draco’s very fine stomach muscles are clenching, a sign he’s close surely.

“Harry, Harry,” Draco says, needy, maybe a warning, maybe a plea. And his voice sounds so good, all high and breathy like that.

“Shhh… I’ve got you, sweetheart. Fuck, yes, come for me.”

And maybe it’s the endearment that does it, or perhaps the order, either way Draco’s spilling over them both only moments later, coating Harry’s hand and cock as he paints his own stomach. He’s beautiful as he goes, lips parted and kissed pink, a flush high on his sharp cheekbones, eyes fluttering, struggling to stay open and on Harry. And the sounds he makes, the way he shudders beneath Harry, has Harry swiftly following.

The orgasm rips through Harry, shocking in its intensity so his mouth falls open silently, and then groans Draco’s name as it peaks and breaks inside him.

They ride it out together, hips still jerking sloppily, before falling out of rhythm.

Harry almost collapses on top of Draco, but he’s quite a bit heavier than him, more muscle even though he’s an inch shorter than Draco’s six-two. He catches himself, though their stomachs press together, spreading the mess between them.

The kiss is messy and wonderful, and they pant into each others mouths as they get their breath back together. After a moment, Harry rolls off Draco.

Draco lies still for a moment, and then waves a hand to spell them both clean. Harry pouts a little, trying to tell himself that it’s not because he likes seeing Draco marked with his and Harry’s release. Draco doesn’t notice, and snaps his pyjama pants into place before rolling onto his side to tuck himself under Harry’s arm. He burrows in close, and Harry smiles and presses a kiss to his fair hair.

They chat for a little while, and eventually get up to shower together. This is very distracting, Draco completely naked with water sluicing down his pale and toned body. He’s got a really magnificent arse, and Harry can’t help but hassle him up against the wall of the shower, his arms wrapped around him to grab his cheeks.

“I think I know your favourite part of me,” Draco says, raising an eyebrow as Harry squeezes his butt.

“No that’s your eyes,” Harry says easily, and delights in the blush it brings to Draco’s cheeks. Harry seems to be able to make this happen ever so easily these days, the blushing. He hopes it never stops.

When they go down for breakfast, Draco becomes distracted. He’s dressed for the day in his usual spotless attire, a white shirt beneath an expensive looking grey sweater, that’s soft as rabbit’s fur when Harry lets his fingers skim it. His legs always look so good in those skinny black jeans of his, long and graceful as he walks.

Draco chews on his toast thoughtfully as they’re sat in the breakfast parlour, apparently barely noticing what he’s eating as he stares off into space. Harry reaches over where he’s sat at a right angle to Draco, and flicks his temple. Draco starts, and then scowls at him, reminding Harry so forcefully of that spoilt boy he met in Madam Malkin’s that he almost laughs aloud.

“What?” Draco spits, and Harry manages not to laugh as Draco seems annoyed enough by the flick as it is.

“What’s got you so dreamy?” Harry asks, then grins. “The sex that good? My hand and cock scramble your brains?”

Draco snorts, his lip curling into a sneer Harry remembers only too well.

“Hardly,” he says, tone haughty.

“No?” Harry says, knowing that he was at least passable from the way Draco fell apart so prettily.

“You were acceptable.”

“Oh well fuck you very much.”

“Maybe later.”

They glare at each other for a moment, then break and laugh. It’s good hearing Draco laugh. It’s a quiet thing, as though it’s not used to being out in the open like this, just a breathy little chuckle at the moment, though Harry has coaxed more from him during their time here.

Because he can’t help it, Harry leans over and kisses him. Draco hums into his mouth, apparently pleased by the action, and gives him that weird little smile of his when they part.

“So what is it?” Harry asks.

Draco sighs, his smile slipping.

“I found some photographs. Or well, the house showed me them.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at Draco, who sits back in his chair as he starts to tear apart the remainder of his toast into little chunks.

“It shows that the curse has been very dangerous for longer than I thought. It sent a witch mad, and she had to be less vulnerable than the muggles it affected.”

Draco looks concerned and thoughtfully and a little annoyed that he didn’t know this detail about the curse despite being an expert on such matters. Harry reaches out and takes his hand. Draco stops tearing the toast, looking down at Harry’s gentle touch instead, dark on light.

“You’ll figure it out,” Harry assures him. “How about you take a break from it today? Come into the village with me? It’s all very festive and pretty at the moment.”

Draco blinks at that, then looks up.

“What’s the date?” he asks, looking confused.

“The twenty-third,” Harry supplies easily.

He knows it because he’s been counting down the days to Christmas, having bought Draco a lovely little silver bird that looks like the patronus Harry knows he has though he’s never seen it himself. Draco’s patronus is a magpie, which suits him. Attracted to shiny things and vicious when they want to be, able to pass down grudges over generations. But also smart, generous with the humans they like, and capable of learning a great many things.

“Oh shit,” Draco says, looking concerned that he’s lost track of the days so.

“See? You clearly need a break,” Harry says, chivying him to eat more as he has an odd need to make sure Draco’s well looked after.

Draco frowns at his fussing, but acquiesces, eating more toast and agreeing to come into the village rather than continue to slave away in the house.

Draco looks very fetching wrapped up in a thick blue scarf and a beautifully tailored smoke-grey coat, that sweeps around his calves as he walks. They crunch through the snow together, Draco’s hand tucked into the crook of Harry’s elbow, his face buried in his scarf.

Harry himself is in a shorter jacket, but it’s still very warm, thick with padding. He’s got a ruby red scarf on that makes Draco snort and mutter something about “Gryffindor pride.” Despite the snow, which falls in gentle flurries, Harry feels warm, and not just because of the warming charm they’ve conjured.

It’s the way Draco walks pressed close, not minding that he’s the one on Harry’s arm like he’s playing the witch. It’s the way the snowflakes catch on Draco’s eyelashes and his cheeks turn pink with the cold. It’s the way the wind picks up pieces of his long hair and makes them dance around his head. And it’s the way every now and then he catches Harry watching him and gives him a pleased little smile.

Draco looks so happy and settled that Harry realises he’s never really seen the man truly happy before now. And isn’t that something? Can it be that he, Harry Potter, has made Draco Malfoy happy?

The village looks wonderful. The little cottages are draped in a blanket of snow, their windows glowing with warm light and wreaths on their doors. The shops are all decorated for the season too, fairy lights and baubles and sparkles in their windows. There’s a large Christmas tree in the village square, impressively decorated considering that the townsfolk probably have had to redo it a few times thanks to the wind that sweeps through the village occasionally.

They do a little Christmas shopping, Draco having forgotten and needing to buy his mother and father gifts. He also buys one for his house elf, which Harry thinks is nice of him, though of course it’s not clothes. Instead he buys Plinky, a happy girl elf by the sounds of it, a large tin of ginger biscuits with a festive scene on the lid.

His mother gets a pretty wooden box, with a blue lacquered surface with flowers painted over it. It’s got little compartments inside it, which Draco says she’ll like as she has more knick knacks than she knows what to do with.

Draco’s father gets a bottle of port for which the village is famous for. It’s not very personal, but Draco doesn’t seem too bothered, and is happy to pay the rather extortionate price for it.

They go to duck into a pub for a drink, before Draco says that he remembers spotting a necklace Pansy will love and waves Harry on, saying he’ll join him in a moment. He leaves Harry with the bags before giving him a swift kiss on the cheek that makes Harry glow with how public it is, and sets off on his own. It’s only once he’s gone that Harry realises Draco’s probably gone to get Harry a gift, but just smiles to himself and orders them each a whiskey.

Harry wonders what it’d be like if Draco kissed him while they were in a pub in England, say, The Leaky Cauldron. People would recognise them there, word would get out that they're an item. It would be a lot of hassle, the gossip section of The Prophet would have a field day. But Harry thinks he wouldn’t mind all that, if it meant he could kiss Draco whenever he felt like it.

Draco returns looking windswept and pleased with himself and they have two glasses of double whiskeys each, so when they step back into the cold they barely need the warming charm. Draco conjures one anyway because “that’s how you get hypothermia, Potter,” and they set off back to the house.

* * *

The house actually seems relieved when they step back in, and seems to try and tug on Draco to draw him further in. He frowns, dragging his scarf off slowly as he feels it out.

“You alright?” Harry asks, making Draco start and continue more quickly with the removal of his outer clothes.

“Just the house,” he explains. “Seems happy to have us back.”

Harry frowns at this and casts a look around the foyer. Draco can’t help but feel a bit soft for him then. Harry always just looks like he’s ready to punch anything that could hurt Draco. For fuck’s sake Draco’s feeling more and more like the swooning witch he swore he wouldn’t let himself become.

“It’s okay, Harry.”

“It is not.”

Harry sounds sulky and Draco rolls his eyes rather than indulge how cute it is.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing his hand to drag him through the house, knowing Harry will feel more comfortable stuck to Draco like spellotape. “You can help me look through the attic.”

* * *

Harry didn’t notice the first time Draco got out of bed in the night. He’s quite a heavy sleeper these days, perhaps lulled into it after years of not having the threat of Voldemort hanging over him. So yes, the first night of Draco sneaking out of bed Harry is none the wiser. But tonight he wakes up around three in the morning and finds the bed empty beside him. Harry frowns.

“Draco?”

His voice is sleep rough and deep in the way that makes Draco’s eyes go dark with want in the mornings. Harry groans when there’s no response, the room beyond the four poster bed entirely empty, though the door’s slightly ajar.

Harry drags himself out of bed, yawning and grabbing his wand and a robe.

_“Lumos,”_ he whispers, though he has no idea why he’s keeping his voice down as there’s no one to disturb now.

Harry goes out into the hallway, his footfalls slightly heavy with how sleepy he is.

The house is silent around him, apart from the occasional creak of pipes and old wood, or the whistle of the wind in the attic. Draco’s not on the first floor, which is where their bedroom is. Harry climbs.

Draco’s not on the second floor either, and seeing as there’s only the attic above that — the house sprawling out rather than up — Harry goes downstairs instead.

Harry eventually finds Draco in the drawing room. It’s dark in here. The wind swirls at the windows and the chimney howls with the wind.

Draco stands in the centre of the room with his back to Harry, pale head bright in the minimal moonlight breaking through the cloud cover. His bony, slender feet are bare on the rug, and his dark robe hangs open. He doesn’t seem to have his wand on him, as he’s made no effort to illuminate the room and it’s not in his hand. Harry steps forward.

“Draco?” Harry asks, tentative. His eyes automatically dart to the shadowy corners of the room for any sign of a threat.

There’s no response. Draco just continues to stand there. All the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end, and the feeling that something is very wrong here starts to creep over him.

“Draco?” Harry tries again, taking a few more steps forward.

He feels a building sense of apprehension, and is not sure why he should be afraid. It’s only Draco afterall. But the way he’s standing there silently is creepy.

But still Draco doesn’t answer him.

Harry sighs, and walks around Draco to get a look at his face.

Draco is staring at the wall, his expression perfectly blank, as though he’s not really seeing it. He’s so still he looks almost like a waxwork, though Harry can see the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Harry hesitates, and then steps into Draco’s space. He lays a hand on his elbow, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Draco sways ever so slightly, his body becoming slowly reanimated as he seems to become gradually aware of his surroundings.

“Harry?”

His voice sounds more fragile than Harry ever wants it to, his silver grey eyes blinking in surprise as they find Harry’s. Harry’s heart breaks for him a little.

“Hey,” he says softly, drawing in closer to place a hand on his other elbow, grounding him, holding him steady.

“What… what happened?” Draco asks, frowning as he realises where they are.

“I think you were sleepwalking,” Harry explains. “But you wouldn’t respond to me calling your name. You were just standing here. Honestly it was a little creepy.”

Draco frowns, drawing closer to Harry apparently without realising what he’s doing.

“I’m cold,” he says, with a shudder, not seeming to care if he sounds vulnerable while he’s still slightly confused. Harry mutters a warming charm before tucking Draco in close to his side, an arm wrapped protectively around Draco’s shoulders as he turns them to leave the room.

“Let's get you back to bed, yeah?” Harry suggests, his tone mild despite how disconcerting he found the whole thing.

Draco nods, still frowning.

“So I was just standing there?” he asks as they mount the stairs.

“Yeah,” Harry replies. “You wouldn’t respond when I called your name a couple of times, so I came round to look at you and you were just sort of staring at the wall with this blank expression.”

Draco comes to an abrupt halt, making Harry wobble slightly as he’d just lifted his leg to go up another step. He puts his foot back down and looks up to find Draco staring at him. There’s something like fear in his eyes.

“I was just staring?” he asks, voice a small thing that doesn’t belong with his usual swagger.

“Yeah,” Harry says, not entirely seeing what the issue is. Sure it was creepy, but lots of sleepwalkers stare at nothing. “Kind of had this really vacant look about you. But you were alright once I touched you. Came right round.”

Draco still looks worried despite Harry’s bolstering words.

“Come on,” Harry says after a moment of Draco just standing there, gazing thoughtfully at the floor.

Draco comes, though he still looks lost in thought.

Draco tucks himself very close to Harry when they’re back in bed, and Harry suspects it’s not just warmth he’s seeking, but comfort too. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Harry rubs his back soothingly, Draco’s head on his chest as Harry lays on his back, their legs tangled together. It takes Harry a long while to fall asleep, still replaying the scared note in Draco’s voice when he’d woken up.

And when he does sleep he’s plagued with a dream of endless corridors. Not like the one he had back in fifth year. These corridors aren’t in the Ministry. There’s too many oil paintings, and the rugs are very familiar. No, this is the Draganov Manor Harry’s lost in.

* * *

Draco barely sleeps, and rises groggy and irritable the next morning. Harry frowns at the smudges under his eyes, and thumbs at them before kissing them, as though that’ll make them disappear. It’s annoyingly sweet, and makes Draco feel a bit guilty for being waspish with him.

Harry takes it all in his stride, seeming to realise Draco’s only being a dick because of a rough night, and responds to it by pampering him. It’s very hard to stay in a bad mood when you have the undivided attention of the very attractive Saviour of the Wizarding World, who takes it upon himself to run Draco a bath and then sits behind him on a stool to rub his shoulders and wash Draco’s hair.

“Why’re you being so nice to me?” Draco asks, before groaning as Harry rubs a particularly stubborn knot he’s had in his shoulder for months.

“What, like I need a reason?” Harry asks, sounding amused.

“No. I’ve just been arsey all morning.”

“I think that’s the lack of sleep rather than genuinely being annoyed at me.”

Merlin, does he have to be so reasonable all the time? It makes Draco want to hex and kiss him in equal measure, just how much of a genuinely good person Harry Potter is.

Despite the very relaxing start to the morning — Harry may or may not have hand fed him fruit — Draco throws himself into his work that day. He’s shaken by Harry’s description of him sleepwalking. He knows plenty of people who sleepwalk stare off into space, but the image of the girl in the photo, sat on the edge of her bed, her eyes blank, had loomed in his mind as soon as Harry said it.

So Draco attacks the curse with real vigour now, his spellwork sharp and poised, each flick of the wrist an elegant expression of what he does best. Harry watches him with rapt attention, and Draco tries not to preen under it. He knows he looks good. This, curse breaking, has been a forte ever since he decided he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps, and would rather break than cast curses.

He’s exhausted by the end of the day, and Harry seems to have made a real effort with the food. There’s a roast ham, which went in the oven covered in cranberries and with cloves pressed into its meat. There’s also roast potatoes, carrots and courgettes, the last two done together in a honey glaze mixed with dijon mustard.

Draco raises his eyebrows as Harry levitates it ahead of him into the dining room.

“That’s quite the spread,” Draco says, having chosen the wine for the evening but otherwise not having contributed.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Harry points out. “I wanted to do something a little special.”

Draco gives him a soft smile, wanting very much to kiss him. Before he remembers that he’s allowed to do that now so he does. Harry looks pleased when they part.

Dinner is good, and Draco tells Harry so. It’s not the Malfoy Manor usual for Christmas Eve, but it’s got a warmth to it that’s somewhat lacking from caviar and the tiny little horderves mother and father are fond of. Draco’s also fond of them, but there’s something about Harry’s cooking that speaks of home and family. And Draco’s starting to appreciate that over displays of wealth and luxury. Not that he doesn’t still enjoy both of those very much.

Harry lets Draco feed him dessert, scooping up pieces of cheesecake, which Harry admits he bought in the village rather than made himself, and feeding it into his waiting mouth. Draco’s not sure why feeding is sensual, but they’re both enjoying it, so he doesn’t think too hard about it.

They retire to the games room as is routine, and are just getting settled when a familiar owl taps against the glass.

“Alcott,” Draco says fondly, unfolding himself from his armchair to go let the owl in.

“Who’s Alcott?” Harry asks from his chair, and Draco turns to catch Harry’s eyes flicking up to meet him, apparently having been admiring his arse. Draco smirks.

“Pansy’s owl.”

He unties the letter from Alcott’s leg, who takes off as soon as he’s done, apparently not bothered about a reply. That should give him a hint to why Pansy may have written, but he’s still surprised when he unfolds the letter to find that Pansy is planning on visiting tomorrow, on Christmas day.

_“Mother’s pestering me again about marrying before I become a spinster, and I can’t bear another Christmas with her and Father sniping at each other. Make sure Potter behaves himself… or don’t, it may be fun to hex him.”_

Draco snorts at this last line, before folding the letter and vanishing it to the writing desk in his unused bedroom.

“What did she say?” Harry asks.

“She’ll be coming for Christmas tomorrow,” Draco replies, seating himself in Harry’s lap as he knows Harry likes that and Draco would like to stop his mood from fowling at the news of Pansy’s imminent arrival.

Draco actually thinks Harry will like Pansy given the chance. She’s quite different from the girl who used to hurl insults at Hermione Granger. Draco wonders if her vitriol for Granger was as motivated by confusing attraction and teenage hormones as his was for Harry. Pansy’s now an openly gay Healer. Draco then wonders if her, Blaise and himself were drawn together because all three of them are so flamingly gay, but couldn’t come out then because of their families’ pure-blood sensibilities. Like calls to like after all.

Harry does look momentarily pleased by his lapful of Draco, his hands automatically coming to smooth over his thighs and hips, squeezing possessively. But then his face falls.

“Pansy Parkinson?”

“No the other Pansy,” Draco snorts, and leans in to lay filthy little kisses along Harry’s jaw and neck in another distraction attempt.

This time it does work, and Harry gives into him. They make out messily, Draco repositioning himself so he’s straddling Harry, his hands on Harry’s jaw, Harry’s hands on his hips.

“Upstairs,” Draco gasps when they break apart.

And it’s a good thing that one can apparate inside the house, even if one can’t apparate into it from outside, because next moment he’s gasping and straddling Harry in bed rather than the armchair.

The fire’s been lit in their room, whether by the house or by Harry Draco doesn’t know or care, but it’s otherwise dark.

Harry rolls them, and Draco goes easily, flopping gracefully onto the sheets and letting Harry put his hands all over him. Harry quickly divests him of all his clothes, and Draco lets himself pool back into the mattress once he’s done, the very image of a pampered, spoiled thing as he gazes up at Harry through eyes hazy with desire.

“Look at you,” Harry breathes, and Draco preens under the attention as Harry runs a reverent hand over his pale chest, his stomach.

Then his lips follow, kissing and sucking and nibbling over Draco’s torso until he’s completely hard and breathless. Then Harry’s glasses and shirt’s gone, tossed to the floor so Draco can see that glorious golden skin, those broad shoulders that make him bite his lip, the strong arms, the toned stomach muscles. Then Harry takes him into his mouth, and Draco forgets all that at the feel of the warm wetness of his mouth.

After a few sucking strokes that have Draco whimpering, there’s a slick finger circling his entrance, and Draco gasps in surprise. They haven’t done this before, just hand and blow jobs until now, so Harry pulls off until just the tip of Draco’s cock is in his mouth, and he can check Draco’s face to see if it’s okay. Which, fuck yes, of course it is.

“Please,” Draco gasps.

Him, Draco Malfoy, just begged for something. In a broken, needy voice too. Harry’s eyes go dark with it. Then he’s pressing in.

Draco gasps, throwing his head back as he’s breached. And Merlin it’s good. Harry’s gone back to sucking his cock in long, slow strokes, lapping at the underside of the head as his finger sinks all the way in.

“Yes, yes, fuck, Harry.”

Draco’s sounding pretty wrecked and he doesn’t even care, just needs more, anything Harry can give him. And it’s so good as Harry starts to pump his finger in and out of him, that Draco wails.

Harry’s good at this. He finds that place inside Draco easily, and rubs it in a way that’s not too much so as to be overwhelming, but has the perfect pressure and rhythm to have Draco whining and fucking his hips back onto Harry’s hand.

A second finger joins, and Draco does feel the stretch then. He holds his breath for a moment, then relaxes into it as Harry distracts him with attention to his prostate and cock.

Harry teases him by bringing him to the edge a few times, so desperate he’s wailing Harry’s name like he’s being paid for it. But each time Harry backs off, and Draco glares at him for it, making Harry grin to himself as he pulls off completely, his fingers still working Draco inside.

He watches Draco as he fucks his fingers into him. He drinks in each expression that flickers across Draco’s face, how he’s gripping the sheets as though he’ll fly apart if he lets go, how his hips roll to meet Harry’s hand.

“Do you want to…” Harry asks eventually, slowing his hand slightly and looking uncertain, like he doesn’t want to pressure Draco into anything.

Draco rolls his eyes. You’d think he was some innocent maiden on her wedding night, not a very bent wizard who’s had a number of cocks up his arse. Not loads, Draco has standards, but enough that Harry doesn’t need to look so bloody apprehensive.

“Fuck me now, Potter, or I’ll hex your dick off.”

The threat only makes Harry laugh, and with a swipe of his hands, his jeans and underwear are gone. Harry’s very generous cock swings free, and Draco drinks in the sight of it, biting his lip. To be fair, he’s never had one quite that big, but he’s not about to back down now. Besides, Draco may have a slight thing for bigger dicks.

Harry removes his fingers from Draco to slick himself up, his mouth falling open slightly as he works himself. It’s hot, and Draco bites his lip as he watches. Then Harry’s pushing his legs up and apart, and Merlin he feels so exposed, and it’s good, it’s so very good. To be so vulnerable and filthy and needy.

Harry seems to realise the same thing and takes a moment to gaze down at Draco spread out for him. His eyes flick down to Draco’s slick and no doubt slightly red hole, and his brow furrows with need.

“Fuck.”

The curse is vehement, and Draco smirks. He loves that he can make perfect Harry Potter so filthy.

“Get a move on, Potter, I warned you what would happen.”

His tone is teasing, and Harry grins at him before lining himself up. Just before he pushes in though, he pauses, and leans forward. The kiss Harry bestows on him is so tender Draco feels as though his chest is caving in.

And Merlin he hasn’t allowed himself to think about what will happen after they leave Bulgaria, because the thought is more painful than he cares to admit. But he wants it so badly then. To stay together, to not care what people think, what Draco’s _parents_ will think. He just wants Harry. Not just for the time they’re here. He think he might want him forever.

Which is why he’s fighting tears as Harry pushes in. Not because it hurts, which it does, but because he can finally admit it to himself. He’s hopelessly in love with Harry Potter. And he knows this can’t last outside this accursed manor.

They’re breathing harshly against each other’s mouths as Harry inches forward. He’s checking Draco’s face for any signs of pain, careful not to hurt him. He does of course, but that’s to be expected, and once he’s fully seated he stills.

Harry’s arms are trembling with the effort of staying still, those green eyes slipping closed for a moment to take in the feel of Draco, before he opens them and fixes Draco with a look that makes him feel like he’ll light on fire.

Draco reaches down and grips Harry’s hip, encourages him to move with a push and a pull. And move Harry does, slow, languid rolls of his hips, each one deep and perfectly on point to have the pain of the stretch melting into the most pleasant ache, the pleasure so good Draco gasps with it. He goes pliant against the bed, letting Harry do the work as he’s clearly good at it.

“Mmnn… Draco, fuck you feel good,” Harry says, the words poured over Draco’s skin like a fine oil, baptising his body in the praise.

And if Draco could make Harry Potter a religion he would. No doubt others have tried, but Draco would like to be his most devoted worshipper. He never thought he’d kneel for another after the humiliating and violating display that was him receiving his dark mark. But sweet Circe Harry just makes Draco want to prostrate himself at his feet. Draco’s always had a generous helping of pride, but it all melts away in the presence of this man. Merlin, this man. Draco’s so fucked.

He reaches up and cups Harry’s jaw in gentle hands, gazing into those green eyes as he feels Harry move within him. Harry’s expression goes soft at the gesture and he leans down to kiss Draco, more breath than lips as Harry’s hips continue their achingly slow roll.

Then Harry leans back up and slams hard into Draco, making him almost choke on it. Harry smirks, and fucks into him with powerful thrusts of his hips, making Draco’s back arch and his voice turn into a keening, needy thing. Harry grips one of Draco’s thighs to hold him in place, and uses the other arm to steady himself as he bites his lip and really gives it to him.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Draco chants, voice an octave higher than usual as he’s hit with wave after wave of it.

And he’s so full, so perfectly stretched, and Harry feels so good on top of him. He’s _heavy,_ and tender with just the right amount of rough to have Draco crying out.

Draco feels himself getting close, and manages to gather himself enough grab his cock.

“Yes, fuck, make yourself come for me,” Harry orders. “Go ahead, sweetheart. You look so good when you do.”

And it’s this, along with the blazing look Harry gives him that has Draco careening over the edge, the orgasm possibly the most intense one he’s ever had as both his cock and prostate are stimulated so well.

And he’s shaking with it, crying out Harry’s name and he doesn’t even care how desperate he sounds, because he’s falling apart, so what does it matter anyway?

And then Harry’s muscles are locking above him, his hips grinding in hard and _deep_ as he spills. And Draco realises he loves the feeling of being marked, decides not to study it too closely as he starts to come down from his climax.

Harry drifts down with him after a moment. He’s half collapsed on top of Draco, and he breaths harsh for a moment as he presses kisses along Draco’s shoulder, up his neck, his jaw, finally finding his mouth to give him a searing kiss.

Draco wants to cry with it. He loves him. He fucking loves him and Harry’s going to leave.

Harry pulls out eventually, and moves back to watch himself drip out of Draco. He bites his lip as he watches, thumbs apart Draco’s cheeks so he can see just what a mess he is.

Draco lets him, he’s done with being proud and put together around this man. If he wants to be filthy and marked he will be.

It’s somewhat regretfully that Harry spells them clean, apparently liking the look of himself on Draco. Then they’re tucking themselves under the duvet, Harry resting his head on Draco’s chest, drawing sleepy little patterns on Draco’s skin as he lets out a contented hum. He sounds a little bit like a bear, and Draco grins with the thought.

“Night, Harry,” he says after a little while.

“Night, Draco.”

And they drift off to the dying light of the fire.

* * *

When Harry wakes in the middle of the night to find Draco standing over their bed watching him sleep, he almost screams.

As it is, he manages to hold it back, clutching his chest as he takes great steadying lungfuls of air. Draco doesn’t react.

Once Harry’s gathered himself, he looks up at Draco and really takes him in. Even though he does seem to be watching Harry, there’s something a little vacant about his expression, much like the time Harry found him in the drawing room.

“Draco?” Harry asks, not really expecting a response.

He’s right not to, as Draco just continues to gaze distantly at him. Harry sits up.

“Draco,” he says again, reaching out to touch.

But when his hand touches Draco’s, this time Draco doesn’t react. He just continues to gaze blankly at him. Harry frowns.

He takes Draco’s hand in his and gives it a little shake. He has the overwhelming feeling that something’s lurking in the corner of the room, watching them. But when he looks around they’re alone.

“Draco, come on,” he pleads. “Come back to bed.”

Draco just watches him, silent and still apart from the breaths he’s taking. He’s wearing one of Harry’s large t-shirts, which skims the tops of his thighs where his boxers cover him. He looks so pale in the moonlight that he’s otherworldly, like he’s got one foot in some other realm and one edging into this one.

Harry just about to get up and pull him bodily into bed, when Draco speaks. Only it doesn’t sound like Draco’s voice.

“It’s here,” he whispers, and his voice seems to slither, dark and sinuous, like something not made for this world. It sends a thrill of fear up Harry’s spine.

He pauses.

“What’s here, Draco?” Harry asks, ignoring the fear in his own voice as Draco continues to gaze at him with those dead looking eyes.

“It wants you, Harry,” Draco says, still in that whispering, awful voice. “We should go with it, Harry.”

“Draco,” Harry says, loudly now, rising up onto his knees to grab Draco and shake him.

That seems to do the trick, as Draco gasps and comes awake, he stumbles slightly at finding himself upright, but Harry steadies him.

“Oh,” Draco says, then his face crumples.

He doesn’t cry exactly, but he takes great, wracking breaths that sound like sobs even if there’s no tears.

“Oh… oh, sweetheart, no,” Harry says, voice full of pain for his lover as he takes Draco in his arms and gathers him close.

He drags Draco onto the bed, which makes Draco’s breath hitch, no doubt pleased by this display of strength though he’s still upset. Harry arranges him on top of him like a rag doll flopped on his chest. Then he summons the duvet up from where he’d pushed it aside and tucks them both in.

After a few moments of guiding Draco to breath along with him, Draco settles, going limp against Harry. Harry continues to rub his back in soothing circles.

“Harry…” Draco says in that awful fragile voice that Harry hates hearing from him, then he falls silent.

He tries again a moment later.

“Harry, I’m scared.”

And for Draco Malfoy to admit that to him, Harry Potter, is telling of just how afraid he is and just how far they’ve come.

And fuck, it’s in this moment, as every protective instinct rears up inside him, that Harry realises he’s hopelessly in love with Draco. And isn’t that just great when this probably won’t last beyond their trip to Bulgaria. Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

“We could leave,” he suggests, wrapping his arms around Draco to hold him impossibly closer.

“No,” Draco says, his breath hot against Harry’s bare chest. “No, I need to stay and fix this. It… it has to be me. I don’t think anyone else could do it. I…”

Harry feels flayed open. Nevermind losing Draco when they return to England, he may lose him in a far more permanent way before they ever step out of this damned house. Because the house wants Draco, Harry knows. Draco may have said it wants Harry while he was sleep talking, but Harry thinks that was at least partially because _Draco_ wants Harry. The house will just take Harry to keep Draco happy.

They fall into a fitful sleep after a while, Harry waking several times, already half sitting up and his power bubbling just below the surface as he itches to lash out with it against the potential threat. But no threat appears. Draco sleeps on beside him, his brow slightly furrowed even in slumber.

Each time Harry sinks back down and gathers him close so his brow soothes at the touch, feeling that in this way at least, Harry can protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting spooky kids. But also smut and Christmas! Yay.
> 
> Thanks again for the kudos and bookmarks! <3
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://ewokthrowdown.tumblr.com/) here, where I take writing prompts and post short drabbles.


	3. Chapter 3

Christmas morning is very romantic. Draco’s awoken by breakfast in bed, which is smoked salmon and cream cheese on toast, a thinly sliced pickled cucumber on top which is rather lovely. There’s also juice and a cup of tea on the tray, along with a carefully wrapped present.

Harry takes his own plate off the tray and bites into his toast, looking slightly bashful as he settles back against the headboard beside Draco.

Circe, Draco loves him so much.

Draco eats purposely slowly, because he can feel Harry thrumming with impatience beside him. When he’s done he sips at his juice, which is freshly squeezed, Merlin damn it, Potter, way to go all out.

“Oh just open it would you!” Harry finally says, almost upsetting the breakfast tray as he makes a grab for the present.

Draco, having suspected this, beats him to it and holds it high above his head and to the side. Harry gazes at him for a moment, seeing the challenge in Draco’s eyes.

“I could get that back very easily, you know,” he says, as though this is a given.

Draco grins at him, wolfish.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

Harry hesitates.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco teases, and he sees Harry’s lip twitch at the familiar words.

“You wish,” he returns, just like last time. And the fact that they’re only just now fucking really shows how clueless they both were considering how much sexual tension is in that exchange. “It’s just… it’s delicate.”

“Oh,” Draco says, intrigued enough to lower the present and actually start unwrapping it.

Harry removes the tray as he works, levitating it over to the floor though placing Draco’s still untouched tea on the side table.

Draco tears into the parcel carefully, slowly enough that Harry groans and collapses into his lap like a child. Draco grins.

“Patience,” he says, tone purposely annoying.

Harry twists so he can glare up at him, then sits back as Draco finally finishes unwrapping the box. It’s leather and slightly padded on top, just like a jewellery box. And god if Potter’s got him jewellery he might die.

But when he opens the box, it’s to find something even better than jewellery.

The magpie is beautifully crafted, only big enough to sit in Draco’s palm and satisfyingly heavy despite its size. Engraved swirls curl over the silver of the bird, blending into feathers and detailing around the eyes and beak. It’s perfect and Draco loves it.

“Harry…” he says, voice a little thick with emotion.

“I think it found me rather than me finding it,” Harry says, stroking a finger down the magpies back as though it’s alive. “I mean what’re the chances of me finding such a beautiful little representation of your patronus in a muggle village in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?”

Draco snorts at this and then settles into a smile as he looks down at the silver bird.

“Thank you…” he says, and looks up to meet Harry’s gaze, trying to communicate how much this means to him, how much more he wants from them than just a few months lost together in this horror house.

Harry looks too happy by how successful his gift is to really get what Draco’s trying to say. Which is perhaps a good thing.

“Mine’s going to seem shit now,” Draco grumbles, levitating the magpie over to the side table to swap it for his tea.

“Nooo, give it to me!” Harry whines, and for fuck’s sake he’s in love with an actual child.

Draco rolls his eyes and summons his gift. The little box drifts over to the bed from where it was stashed on top of the wardrobe, coming to a rest in Harry’s outstretched hand.

Harry tears into his gift with far less patience than Draco. The jewellery box is similar to the one Draco’s bird came in and Draco realises they probably came from the same shop, which makes him smile. Well, it’s not like there’s a huge selection in the little village.

Harry opens the box and his eyes go wide.

“Oh wow,” he breathes, taking out the broach that manages to be both pretty and masculine.

It’s set with emeralds, because even though Harry’s a Gryffindor, the green reminds Draco of his eyes, and they sit at the four points of the diamond shaped metal. The metal is silver of course, and is elegantly wrought with swirling patterns in between the concentric diamond pattern.

“It’s so beautiful… did we go to the same place?” Harry says and Draco chuckles.

“Looks that way. I thought you could use it as a clasp for your cloak.”

“Well I love it. It’s very you,” Harry says, and Draco feels his breath catch. Does Harry know he almost said he loves Draco?

Apparently not, as Harry’s busy unclasping the broach and attaching it, ridiculously, to his terrycloth robe, apparently completely unphased by what he just said. Draco was probably just attaching more meaning than there was to those words anyway. He feels his stomach sink with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief, because this is already enough of a mess as it is. But mainly disappointment because if Harry loves him back then maybe, just maybe, they can make this work beyond Bulgaria.

They finish their tea together after the present opening, and it’s so painfully domestic Draco feels like he’s got a crack beneath his ribs, stretching further apart each time Harry gives him a soft, fond smile. He’s so in love and he can’t have this. Because why would fate start smiling on him now? After it’s had such a good time shitting all over his life thus far.

They shower, which leads to predictable orgasms as they’re both equally turned on by the other being wet and nude, and go downstairs once they’ve dressed.

It’s at this point that a veritable deluge of presents comes through the fire in the drawing room, apparently flooed in. It’s as though the house was waiting for them to come down to let the gifts in, and now they fall out of the fire one after the other before the flames go out.

They settle on the floor in front of the tree and are half way through tearing into the pile, when the doorbell chimes through the house. Draco goes to answer it as Harry tugs on his new Weasley jumper, which is a lovely royal blue that suits him very well and has a large green H on the front.

Pansy’s at the door, looking windswept and gorgeous with her fashionable dark bob and burgundy lipstick. She inherited Japanese features from her mother’s side which have only gotten prettier as she entered her twenties; high cheekbones and dark, clever eyes. Her long cloak opens beneath the clasp to reveal a tiny, high waisted leather skirt with a pair of tights beneath it, a rather lovely emerald green blouse tucked into it. She’s holding a tin can, which must be a portkey as she tosses it over her shoulder.

“Hello you,” Pansy says to Draco, sweeping forward to bestow a kiss to each of his cheeks.

“Hello, darling,” Draco returns clasping her elbows to get a good look at her.

“Where’s the Potter Prat?” Pansy asks, waving her wand at her bag so it vanishes to the upper floors.

“In the drawing room, and don’t call him a prat.”

“I’ll call him whatever I like,” Pansy sniffs, going ahead of Draco towards the drawing room, naturally knowing the layout of houses like this as her stilettos tap across the hardwood.

Harry looks up when they enter, and Draco tries not to find the way he looks in that ridiculous jumper so endearing. Pansy just snorts.

“Seasons greetings, Potter,” she says with a smirk, but when she sees Harry’s eyes flick uncertainly to Draco, her smile slips. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“What?” Draco asks innocently, going to rejoin Harry on the floor next to the tree.

“How long have you two been shagging, you great prat?” she asks, throwing her hands up before letting them flop to her sides.

Harry looks somewhat concerned by the typical Slytherin sniping at each other, despite Draco having heard he and Ron ribbing each other. Admittedly they do it with less venom in their tones.

“A month now, you massive bitch,” Draco says with a wolfish grin, which makes Harry relax.

“Fantastic,” Pansy snaps, removing her cloak and vanishing that too. “Well your parents will be thrilled.”

Draco shrugs, because he doesn’t feel like pointing out that it’s unlikely his parents will find out if he and Harry don’t last past Bulgaria.

“Hi, Pansy,” Harry says far too late.

Pansy rolls her eyes but seems to find Harry as oddly endearing as Draco does if the slight lift to her cheek is right.

Draco and Pansy bicker over more present unwrapping, the familiarity of it very comforting to Draco, who’s only just noticing how much he’s missed her.

Pansy has bought him a lovely tie in a smokey grey with understated little diamond detailing if you look closely. Draco’s got her the necklace of course, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find Harry’s picked her up a present too, which Draco has no idea how he managed seeing as he only found out she was coming last night. Pansy tears into the wrapping paper to reveal a pretty quill made from a raven’s feather, another surprise seeing as the nearby shops are all for muggles who don’t use quills.

It’s a very sweet gesture, and Draco loves Harry all the more for it, being so nice to his best friend. Draco’s about to feel bad that Pansy hasn’t got Harry anything, when she hands him over a neatly wrapped gift. Harry looks just as surprised as he is, and maybe Draco hadn’t been as subtle as he thought about his super massive pathetic crush on Harry Potter, not if Pansy thought there’d be reason to buy Harry a present.

Harry unwraps it to find a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey, and beams at Pansy in a way that makes Pansy — who usually prefers witches to wizards — blush.

Harry hands Draco a lumpy parcel with a grin that looks far too pleased for his liking.

“From Molly Weasley,” he explains. “Hermione must’ve told her we’re getting on alright now and spending Christmas together.”

“I’d say you’re doing more than ‘getting on alright’” Pansy snorts, but Draco ignores her in favour of unwrapping the gift.

It’s a Weasley jumper, which, Draco realises, must be why Harry is looking so pleased. Harry and Pansy fall about laughing at the look on Draco’s face, but at least part of his expression is faked. True, he prefers to buy his clothes from top end stores, but it’s actually very touching that Molly Weasley, who must hate his family as much as the rest of the Weasleys do, would go to such lengths to show she at least will accept him.

The jumper is Slytherin green of course, with a large D knitted into the front in purple. Harry springs up and tackles him, making Draco squawk in an undignified manner as Harry wrestles him out of his current jumper and into the Weasley one. Draco puts up a bit of a fight, but mostly let’s Harry win because he seems so happy about the whole thing and because Draco actually likes the jumper. Merlin’s tits he’s going soft.

Harry beams at the sight of Draco in the jumper when he’s finished. Draco, his hair a mess and his cheeks slightly flushed, plucks at the jumper with false disdain.

“Admittedly sweet of her,” he allows, and Harry practically glows.

Pansy is wiping her eyes because she laughed so hard she cried, and whenever she looks at Draco in the jumper she breaks into fresh peels of it. Draco scowls at her.

They have a big Christmas dinner courtesy of Harry. It’s a far cry from the Christmas food Draco’s used to at the Malfoy Manor of course, but it’s reminiscent of Hogwarts, with a fat turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes, parsnips, pigs in blankets and sprouts fried in butter with chopped up bacon. It’s delicious, and Draco gives Harry a big kiss for it that makes Pansy cackle.

They haul themselves back to the drawing room after lunch, which since Harry’s efforts to make it more homely, is actually quite nice. He dug out a rug from the attic several weeks ago, so the hardwood floors are softened by its rich colours, and the tree sparkles prettily from the corner, the chandelier dimmed so the main source of light is the fire and candles. Draco’s surprised to realise that Harry’s efforts to make things nice is actually a skill, because who would think the Saviour of the Wizarding World had time to be into interior design?

They play cards and talk shit, Harry holding back from Draco and Pansy’s savage bitching at first but then giving in. He’s actually got a surprising mean streak, but he’s never cruel, and manages to make his jibes about other people funny enough that Pansy doesn’t notice they’re not actually as mean spirited as hers or Draco’s. She actually laughs a lot, seeming to regard Harry in a new light after a couple of hours.

Draco goes to fetch them another bottle of wine from the cellar as the afternoon wanes into evening. It’s as he’s walking back along the corridor leading to the drawing room that he hears his name mentioned. He pauses, and then creeps forward to hear what they’re talking about.

“...not sure it’s healthy for him,” Harry’s saying, voice soft with concern. “I think it’s starting to hold sway over him even in waking hours. Sometimes I’ll see him staring into space and it’s so reminiscent of when he’s asleep that I feel sick with worry. But then he comes round just fine when he’s awake. It’s when he’s asleep that it’s really terrifying.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” Pansy asks, and Draco’s surprised at how gentle her voice is.

“I suggested we leave,” Harry replies, sounding pained. “But he thinks we have to stay, that he’s the only one who can lift the curse… and with his skill I have to say I think he’s right, there’s a reason the Bulgarian Ministry owled us rather than use one of their own Curse-Breakers. I just… I can’t lose him in the process, Pansy, I’m not… I’m not strong enough… I lose all the people that I…”

Harry cuts himself off with a shaky breath, and Draco desperately wants to know how that sentence was going to end.

“You should talk to him again,” Pansy says, and Draco leans forward to spy through the gap in the door, seeing her reach out and lay a hand on Harry’s arm. “You may not be able to convince him to leave, but you may be able to convince him that he needs to be more on guard, to let you know if he’s starting to feel weird.”

Is Draco starting to feel weird? He’s not sure. Yes, okay, it’s terrifying waking up standing in a spot he has no memory of getting to. And yes, sometimes the house scares him, seems to call to him. But he’s not feeling… unravelled. A little tired, a little under pressure to break the curse. But Harry helps with all that. He soothes the ache of a long day stressing over what counter charms and curses Draco should choose next. Helps wash away the slightly icky feeling that the house leaves on him, like its run its tainted hands all over him.

But all that’s normal for a cursed house. It’d be weird if he wasn’t slightly affected. But Harry has a point. He does find himself drifting sometimes, staring at a spot too long as the room seems to shift around him, the world going kind of quiet. It’s calming, to sink into that place, like when you let your eyes go unfocused, but with your whole mind.

Okay that last bit probably isn’t so normal.

And though Draco feels he should be annoyed that Harry and Pansy are talking about him while he’s not there, Harry’s genuine concern and Pansy’s attempts to comfort him because she knows it’s what Draco would want, are actually very touching.

Draco creeps back up the hallway a little, then starts walking loudly towards the room so they know he’s coming. When he swings the door fully open, Harry and Pansy have moved apart and are feigning conversation of a different topic.

When they climb into bed hours later, Draco gives Harry a blowjob so good Harry almost screams.

* * *

Pansy, surprisingly, is rather nice to have around. True, she’s still cutting when she wants to be and sometimes seems to bite back comments about some things Harry says. But generally, she’s a pretty different witch to the girl he knew at school. Harry wonders if getting away from their parents has been as good for all the Slytherins as it has been for Draco and Pansy.

It’s also nice having someone to talk to about his concern for Draco who’s actually there, not just communicating through letters. Though Hermione’s been sympathetic, it’s hard to get across an entire conversation, really express the feeling of the house and the look Draco sometimes gets in his eyes without someone seeing it. And sometimes words aren’t necessary, Pansy seems to read Harry’s concerned expression and will grimace in sympathy as they watch Draco.

Draco seems better for her presence too. Harry knows he’s enjoyed their time alone, hell, they’ve had enough sex to keep him happy. But Pansy’s Draco’s best friend, and sometimes one needs a balance between romance and friendship. Also Draco loves to brag.

Harry’s noticed this in particular. Draco gets a little clumsy while Pansy’s visiting, and Harry has to catch him a couple of times in a perfect display of strength and lightning fast reflexes. Draco smirks at Pansy when Harry does it, making the witch roll her eyes at the pair of them.

Draco also asks for his help with a particularly strong ward that’s been giving him trouble. Harry punches straight through it with an impressive display of power. Draco looks thrilled by this, and drags Harry upstairs and rides his cock until Draco’s a sobbing, overstimulated mess.

* * *

After Pansy’s been with them for three days, they’ve settled into a sort of cosy routine, waking up in the morning and having breakfast together, going for a walk through the snow — Harry and Pansy usually stopping to pelt each other with snowballs as Draco looks on with an air of feigned superiority — then popping into the pub to warm up with a drink. Then they come back to the house and Draco does some work, though not as much as usual because it’s Christmas and he thinks he deserves a little downtime, and Pansy and Harry entertain themselves. Sometimes they watch Draco work, sometimes they go explore the house, though rarely together. Pansy’s very interested in the photographs Draco found, and hunts down more in the attic that Harry and Draco somehow missed.

It’s alarming when she trips on the way back down, almost breaking her neck before Harry catches her with a well placed spell. Draco finds him particularly attractive in that moment, and Pansy too looks flustered and grateful. The three of them turn to look at the step that seems to have shifted slightly to trip her. It’s concerning, like the house only wants Draco to find its secrets, no one else. Perhaps it thinks others will be able to convince him to leave if they have enough reason to worry.

The photos Pansy finds are much like the ones Draco discovered; a distressing documentation of the house’s curse. There’s photos of dead bodies from more recently, muggle from the look of their clothing. There’s also another case of insanity from further back, a middle aged woman this time, who tears at her hair and claws at her arms, until in the last photo she’s shown restrained so as not to hurt herself or others.

Harry holds him extra close that night, burying his face in Draco’s neck as he lays plastered to his side.

“Please,” he begs. “I’m so worried about you. I… I care about you. And I don’t want to lose you, Draco.”

Draco’s heart clenches at the confession, and he wonders if Harry could possibly feel the same way he does. He squeezes him closer at the thought. Should he tell him how he feels?

“I’m the only one who can break it,” Draco says instead. “I have to stay.”

“I’m not asking you to leave,” Harry says, looking up so Draco can see just how much this is costing him. “I’ve never really been one to run away from danger. I just need you to be careful. It’s… the house is affecting you, Draco. Not just at night, you go distant in the day sometimes too. Like it’s lulling you into sleepwalking when you’re awake… it frightens me.”

And admitting that must be difficult for Harry. They’ve grown to trust each other, but they’re still them, no matter how differently they now feel about each other. Draco feels immensely grateful for this final barrier falling between them; the admission of being afraid.

“I…”

He almost says it, almost confesses that he’s in love with Harry, but he stops himself at the last moment.

He can’t.

Maybe if they make it through this, if Draco can break the curse, they’ll talk. It all just feels so fraught at the moment, and he can’t bring himself to say the words and not have them returned. It would be too much on top of everything, to have Harry’s comfort yanked away from him.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises instead. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Harry hums, and leans up to press a kiss full of feeling to his lips.

In the end, Draco’s promise doesn’t make a difference.

* * *

Harry wakes in the night more easily now. When he does this time, the bed is again empty beside him. Harry looks around the room, half expecting to see Draco standing over him again. But the room too is empty.

Harry sighs, and drags himself out of bed.

The corridor is cold with its usual howling wind against the windows and creaks from the house. Harry does his warmth and light spells, and starts his search for Draco. But he finds Pansy first.

“Potter?” she says, reverting back to his surname though she’s been calling him by his given name since they’ve got used to each other. She must be only half awake.

Pansy steps out of the doorway she’s lingering in which leads to her bedroom. She’s pulled a black silk robe around herself, though Harry can still see the matching, luxury nightie she has beneath it.

“Why’re you up?” Harry asks her gently, taking in her rumpled hair and slightly squinty eyes.

“I heard someone walk past my room,” Pansy explains. “I’m a light sleeper. Thought it might be Draco and wanted to see if I could get him to go back to bed.”

“Which way did he go?” Harry asks, and she points down the corridor in the direction Harry was headed.

It leads to more of the larger bedrooms, and Harry holds his wand aloft to see further down it. Draco’s not there, but a door at the end of the hall is ajar.

_“Lumos,”_ Pansy whispers beside him, and she follows him down the corridor towards the room.

When Harry pushes the door open, Draco is again standing with his back to the door in the centre of the shadowy bedroom. He doesn’t react to his name as usual, though he is moving this time. His arms are held in front of him so Harry can’t see what they’re doing, but his shoulders and upper arms — draped in his robe — move with the effort.

Harry approaches him cautiously, not sure what state of mind he’s in and not wanting to end up getting attacked when Draco’s not aware of what he’s doing. There’s a lump in his throat as Harry approaches and he tries to tell himself that it’s just Draco, there’s no reason to be afraid.

As Harry draws near, he wonders what the noise is, like something scratching over skin. When he rounds Draco he sees what it is.

Long scratch marks litter Draco’s arms. They’re angry and bleeding, marking his pale skin with vicious lines. It’s a good thing his nails are short, because in the brief glimpse Harry gets before he acts, Draco looks to be pressing in hard.

“Draco!”

Harry’s cry doesn’t rouse him, but he grabs Draco and pulls his hands away from his arms, all magic forgotten in the face of what Draco’s doing to himself. Draco doesn’t react for a moment, just stares at Harry with that blank look. Then, a slow, creeping smile unfolds itself across his face. The grin is manic, absolutely absurd, and it chills Harry to the bone. It’s the scariest thing he’s ever seen.

“Draco!” he shouts, before Pansy lets off a bang with her wand that has Draco starting and entering the waking world rather abruptly.

Draco gasps and sways, his confused eyes finding Harry’s. He seems comforted by his presence, before his brow furrows and he looks down at his arms.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then Draco lets out a low, anguished moan, his hands starting to shake violently as he gazes down at what he’s done to himself.

Harry gathers him close, as Pansy hurries out of the room no doubt to fetch medical supplies from her bag. Draco collapses against Harry, and without a word Harry sweeps him up into his arms. Harry imagines that if he were feeling less afraid and vulnerable at the moment, Draco would never have allowed Harry to carry him anywhere, despite enjoying Harry’s displays of strength. But he doesn’t complain now, just presses himself to Harry’s chest, his injured arms held close to his own body as though to protect them, spots of blood appearing on his dark robe.

Harry fights the feeling inside him that feels like screaming at the way Draco shakes in his arms. How scared he clearly is.

They go up the corridor and Harry returns them to their room, laying Draco down on the bed before climbing in himself to sit against the headboard and hold Draco close.

Draco continues to shake in Harry’s arms, and Harry suspects he might actually be crying this time, though he can’t see his face.

Pansy comes in shortly, levitating a bottle of dittany, clean towels and a basin of warm water ahead of her. She settles on the edge of the bed, her equipment coming to rest on the side table as she gives Draco a grim little smile and offers her hand.

Draco doesn’t move for a moment, arms still clutched to his chest, but then he releases one to let Pansy look at it. She tuts.

“Oh, Draco,” she sighs, and Draco lets out a little sob.

Harry strokes his hair, which has spilled loose over his shoulders.

Pansy cleans the scratches with the warm water and towels, then applies the dittany. The scratches heal up just fine, but Pansy conjures bandages to wrap around the unmarked skin anyway, as though to protect it from further harm.

This gives Harry an idea, and he grabs his wand to start laying down spells around the bed.

“What’re you doing?” Pansy asks, half watching Harry as she secures the bandages into place.

Draco’s gone heavy and pliant against Harry, apparently exhausted from the ordeal. Harry continues to stroke his hair with his free hand.

“Putting up alarm charms,” Harry explains. “I’ll know if Draco wakes up, or if he goes wandering. I should have thought of it earlier, before he got hurt… I’m so _stupid.”_

The last word is spat full of hatred for his own shortsightedness. Just because the sleepwalking hadn’t hurt Draco before now, Harry still should’ve known it could. It’s a _curse_ for crying out loud. Causing pain is what it does.

Harry knows that it could be the house’s influence, convincing him they’re safe enough not to need protective spells. But he still feels guilty.

Pansy’s done with Draco’s arms, and watches Harry put the last of his spells in place. There’s a few shields thrown in there, so Draco will be protected while he sleeps from the curse. Harry will have to look into maintaining a shield around him at all times that allows him to work. He’s not really sure there’s one that exists, but he’s going to try goddammit.

“Put shields around your bed,” Harry advises Pansy. “I don’t want it lashing out at you in your sleep because it can’t get to him.”

Pansy nods, wide eyed as she lifts a hand to where Harry’s shield sits, invisible other than a very slight tremble in the air when Pansy touches it.

“Merlin’s bollocks, Potter, you’re strong,” she breathes, getting a feeling for the shield. “I’d heard, and I saw you break through that ward, but I don’t really know enough about wards to have been that impressed. I know shields though. This is the strongest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, well,” Harry says, uncomfortable with a lot of praise but especially when it comes from Pansy Parkinson. “Hopefully it’ll be enough. I’ll have to find an alternative for when Draco’s working. He won’t be able to feel the curse if he’s contained in a shield, and it’s hard for him to know what spells to cast without feeling it.”

“Mmm, if I had more time here I’d help you figure it out,” Pansy says as she stands, passing easily through the shield then gazing down at the pair of them.

Draco seems to be half asleep on Harry’s chest as Harry leans against the headboard, holding him close. Pansy smiles at the sight, which surprises Harry. But then, maybe she thinks Harry can make Draco happy. He hopes so. It’ll be smoother if he has her blessing.

“Take care of him, Harry,” Pansy says, voice gentle as she gazes down at Draco.

“Always,” Harry promises, and when she meets his eye, he can tell she can see he means it.

* * *

Draco refuses to be a shaking, pathetic little thing come morning. He rises out of bed, which immediately sets off the alarms Draco was only half aware of Harry conjuring last night. Harry, who had been sleeping soundly, jerks awake and grabs Draco, pushing him behind Harry, back down against the pillows as he springs to his feet in a posture that’s very familiar.

“Stand down, Harry, I was just getting up for a slash,” Draco drawls, and Harry turns to him, slightly wild eyed.

Harry blinks, then seems to realise what’s going on, and his posture relaxes.

“Sorry,” he says, sinking back down to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Draco. “The alarm. Did its job I suppose. Maybe just poke me next time so I don’t jump out of my skin.”

“Duly noted,” Draco agrees, crawling across the mattress to slide his hands over Harry’s bare shoulders and down his chest.

Draco presses a kiss to Harry’s temple and Harry hums as he reaches up to place a hand over the one Draco has over his heart. They stay there for a moment, before the desire to relieve himself becomes too much and Draco has to go to the bathroom.

When he’s done, he unwraps his bandages to check his arms, which are of course fine thanks to the dittany. He shudders slightly, remembering coming round to see Harry, staring at him with that terrified expression, before Draco had looked down to see why his arms were stinging.

“Do you think the photographs are influencing you?” Pansy asks later at breakfast. “I mean you saw the one of the woman with the scratched arms, and then you did it to yourself too.”

“Maybe,” Draco allows, but he doesn’t really think so.

He knows curses can mutate, this one certainly has, but a lot of them have patterns too, little favourite characteristics they like to hang on to. The staring and the self harm seem to be favourites.

Pansy leaves later that day, stating a New Year’s Eve party in Paris she simply can’t miss, but promising to be back soon. As much as Draco’s enjoyed her company, it’s quite nice when she’s gone and he can have Harry’s undivided attention.

Harry seems intent on sticking as close as usual that day, hovering around him. Draco, after last night’s ordeal, finds this more comforting than annoying.

The curse is starting to show signs of weakness thanks to Draco’s effort. Draco thinks he feels a note of confusion from the house, as though it’s wondering why he doesn’t want to play anymore. Draco just attacks it all the more viciously.

That evening, Harry kisses him softly as they’re sat by the fire, and draws him gently into apparating upstairs.

“Hi,” Harry says with a smile as they stretch out side by side on the bed together, turned into each other to touch and kiss.

“Hi,” Draco says back, finding it sweet despite the corniness. He reaches up and gently removes Harry’s glasses, levitating them to the side table.

Harry kisses him, deep and heady, then he tugs him into a kneeling position opposite him. Harry divests him of his clothes slowly, laying kisses over each bit of skin as it’s revealed. Draco trembles with it, this act of devotion so tender that the crack under his ribs seems to grow spikes.

Then Harry’s leading Draco’s hands to undress him too, which Draco does, taking as much time and reverence as the act deserves.

When Harry places his hand on Draco’s cock he can’t help but twitch his hips into the touch. Harry strokes him slowly, his eyes on Draco’s reactions, drinking them in.

“Harry…” he sighs, and Harry turns and goes to lean against the headboard with his back to Draco.

“Come here,” he says over his shoulder, and Draco, who had been staring, goes to him.

Draco presses kisses over the freckled, golden skin of his shoulder, running his hands up Harry’s sides. Harry sighs and leans into the touch, his head falling back onto Draco’s shoulder.

“Draco…” And it’s enough of a request that Draco understands what Harry’s asking for.

He conjures lube into his palm, and slides his fingers between Harry’s cheeks. Harry makes a little “mm” of pleasure and curves his back into the touch.

Harry shakes with it as Draco slips a finger in. Draco reaches round and takes his cock into his other hand, pumping Harry so he pushes his hips back and forward, not sure which touch he wants to seek more of.

“Good…” Draco praises him, and Harry whimpers and reaches back to clasp at the side of Draco’s neck. “Oh you’re so good.”

Draco works him slow, thrilling in how responsive to him Harry is. He makes the most lovely needy little sounds, shaking and gripping Draco with one hand and the headboard with the other. When Draco’s two fingers in and Harry’s practically sobbing for more, Draco slips his fingers free and slicks himself up.

“Oh god,” Harry moans at the sound of Draco pumping himself, his head falling forward as both hands grip the headboard in anticipation.

Draco grins at how desperate he is for it, and lines himself up. He presses a kiss to the nape of Harry’s neck as he presses slowly in.

Harry’s breaths are sharp pants as Draco eases in, giving him plenty of time to adjust. Draco lays kisses over his shoulders to distract him, reaching around to stoke him back to full hardness. He stills when he’s fully seated.

After a moment Harry relaxes.

“Draco…”

And Draco starts to move.

Harry is tight and hot around him, and he lets out these little panting moans that have Draco’s grip on his hips tightening with how hot it makes him. He holds Harry still and fucks his hips forward in slow, deep thrusts that have them both breathless.

He seems to hit that good spot in Harry after a few tries, and Harry arches so prettily, a gasp escaping him. Draco groans at the sight of him, stretched around his cock and pushing back into it so needily.

“Draco, Draco,” Harry is saying, and Draco leans forward to suck a kiss to his shoulder, drag his bottom lip over the skin there.

“You feel so good, Harry,” Draco murmurs to him, and feels how the praise makes Harry tremble, his grip on the headboard turning his knuckles white.

Harry’s clenching around him as it builds in him, and Draco pushes his own pleasure away as he tries to stay focused on making it good for Harry.

“Fuck, Draco… I’m… please…”

Harry’s voice is ruined, falling apart like he is. So Draco grips his hips and starts sliding his cock in deep and hard, pulling Harry repeatedly back onto him so Harry wails.

“Good, good, fuck, Harry, you’re so good,” and it’s this that really pushes Harry close, all his muscles locking, so when Draco reaches around and strokes him, Harry shakes apart quickly.

Draco fucks him through it, drawing it out a little so Harry can really feel it, before he too breaks.

It’s so good to spill into that wet, tight heat, mark Harry up so he moans Draco’s name as he comes down from his climax. Draco has to soften the bite he gives Harry, wanting to clench his jaw hard enough to do proper damage as the orgasm tears through him.

There’s a roaring in Draco’s ears as he comes down and find’s Harry stroking the hand Draco has gripping his hip. Draco unclenches his fingers, seeing the colour flood back into the skin. Draco hums. Harry’s mixed race means he doesn’t show damage as easily as Draco, but there’ll no doubt be some bruising. It surprises Draco just how much he likes the idea of that. He wants his mark on Harry badly enough to hurt.

Draco cleans them with a quick spell, and they flop onto the mattress together. They turn into each other on their sides. Harry blinks sleepily at him, always so tired after sex. Typical man.

Draco smiles, impossibly fond as he reaches up and strokes Harry’s hair back from his forehead.

“I love you,” Harry blurts suddenly, then looks appalled at himself.

And it’s like a miniature explosion going off in Draco’s head. There’s a rushing like the sound of waves breaking against the shore in his ears, and he feels dizzy with it, drunk on this wonderful man.

Meanwhile, Harry’s freaking out.

“Oh god,” Harry says, sitting up and turning to bury his face in his hands. “Oh god.”

Draco sits up slowly, smiling stupidly. His heart feels like it’s about to burst directly out of his chest. And this feeling is too big for one person, surely it’s not healthy. He feels like screaming and laughing.

Harry Potter loves him.

_Harry Potter_ loves _him._

“Harry,” Draco laughs, and at the sound Harry looks up, looking wary but slightly comforted by the fact Draco’s not freaking out. “Stop shitting yourself, I love you too, you massive dork.”

Harry’s face goes slack with surprise. There’s a beat, and then Harry’s launching himself at Draco, who goes down laughing.

Harry kisses the life out of him, and Draco will gladly wave goodbye to his soul as he feels it levitate out of his body.

“You,” Harry says between kisses to his lips, chin, cheek, nose, forehead. “You.”

“And you,” Draco says, grinning hard enough to make his cheeks ache.

“Mmm… I like the sound of that,” Harry rumbles, in that low voice that makes Draco shudder with arousal. His cock gives a valiant twitch.

They kiss for a while, deep and full of feeling. Then they settle back down to cuddling.

“My parents are going to freak,” Draco says after a moment, and Harry laughs, the sound bright and delighted.

“Oh god,” Harry says between the laughter. “Lucius Malfoy is going to know I fucked his son. Oh god.”

Harry continues to cackle at this thought, until Draco hits him with a pillow, though his lips still twitch a bit.

“Mother might not actually mind,” Draco says thoughtfully, drawing shapes on the warm skin of Harry’s back. “She just wants a good match for me. And you’re fairly influential in the wizarding world.”

“Really?” Harry says, looking surprised as he leans up on one elbow to look at Draco. “I thought she hated me that time we met in Madam Malkin’s.”

“Oh she did,” Draco says. “Thought you were a right little shit. But she’s warmed to you slightly since the war. She wasn’t a full Death Eater, and she only stuck around because so much of her family was under the Dark Lord’s thumb. Also I may have told her you saved my life in the Room of Requirement, and that definitely helped.”

“Mmm…” Harry hums with a smile, and leans in to kiss him.

It’s good. It’s so very good.

* * *

Hermione and Ron come to stay for New Year’s Eve, because as Ron says in his letter, _“it’s bad enough you spent Christmas with only Slytherin company, the least we can do is make sure New Year’s isn’t the same.”_

Draco’s lip curls when he hears they’re to expect Harry’s two best friends, but he doesn’t say anything. When they arrive by portkey early on the day of New Year’s Eve, Draco even manages to give them both a thin lipped smile.

Hermione sweeps Harry into a hug, and Harry smiles, having missed her. Then she turns to Draco and gives him a tentative smile.

“Hello, Draco,” she says, offering her hand. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Gr — Hermione,” Draco corrects himself smoothly, and shakes her hand.

Ron cuffs Harry on the shoulder, before pausing and nodding to Draco. Draco returns the nod and a little of the tension breaks.

They play a stupid game of sardines because it’s irresistible in a house this size. Hermione’s the last left, Harry, Draco and Ron tucked behind some boxes in the attic. Harry worries such close quarters being enough to set Draco and Ron at each other’s throats, but they remain civil, no doubt for Harry’s benefit.

They hear Hermione coming, and when she draws close, Ron jumps out at her, making her scream and hex him.

Draco laughs so hard at the sight of Ron being attacked by the bat bogey hex he has to lean on Harry, still chuckling after Hermione’s removed the hex, stumbling over herself to apologise.

There’s a lot of laughter as they sit chatting in the drawing room. Harry had been distracted enough by Draco that he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed his friends. Harry gets beaten soundly by Ron at chess, and when Ron challenges Draco to a game, Harry and Hermione hold their breath. But Draco agrees after a moment’s pause. The game goes on for ages as they’re apparently well matched, and Harry and Hermione lose interest and go to explore the house some more.

Hermione finds the curse fascinating, saying she would’ve visited sooner to see it in action, but work’s been hectic lately.

“How are things at the Ministry?” Harry asks.

Hermione is in Kingsley’s department, the Minister finding her advice invaluable. Harry suspects he’s grooming her to become Minister herself one day, and smiles as Hermione launches into a story about their latest discussions with the Swedish Ministry.

“I’m guessing Draco didn’t bring his house elf because curses can sometimes turn on them,” Hermione says as she slices onions for the late lunch she and Harry are preparing.

“Oh?” Harry asks, not having really considered the matter.

“Yes, it’s rather considerate of him actually. Sometimes curses can be used to going for witches and wizards, and elf magic throws them. It can make them especially violent. I suspect Draco wanted to protect his elf.”

This, along with the present Draco bought Plinky, convinces Harry that Draco is a thoroughly converted wizard. Harry can’t imagine Lucius Malfoy ever allowing Dobby to stay home because there was a danger to his life.

Harry kisses him for it when they bring the lunch through — Draco and Ron having paused their game — and when he breaks away he sees Ron staring at them, half shocked, half disgusted. Ron seems to realise what his face looks like, because he shakes his head, and schools it into a more neutral expression.

“Blimey,” he says, blinking at his plate. “I still didn’t really believe it until just now.”

“Get used to it, Weasley,” Draco drawls, raising an imperious eyebrow at Ron over his wine glass. “I’m here to stay.”

Harry can’t feel annoyed at Draco for baiting Ron when he sounds so pleased to be staying with Harry. He flicks him gently on the temple though, making Draco scowl at him.

Ron has Harry laughing so hard over lunch that he struggles to finish his food. He missed his sense of humour. And even Draco cracks a smile at some of Ron’s funnier comments.

Hermione and Draco get into an animated conversation about the curse on the manor, and curse-breaking in general. Hermione is curious about everything, and Ron, having a brother who’s a Curse-Breaker, is able to join in with some insightful comments. Draco raises his eyebrows at this, looking mildly impressed. Harry’s feels such an overwhelming sense of relief that he wants to kiss all of them.

They’re all a little tipsy by the time the countdown starts on the Wizarding Wireless, Ron with his arm around Hermione, Harry with his arm around Draco. They stand in the drawing room before the fire, counting down together.

When they reach “...1, Happy New Year!” Harry kisses Draco squarely on the mouth, both of them smiling into it. He feels Draco’s arm move and a moment later there’s a bang, lights flashing against Harry’s closed eyelids. He breaks away to look up and sees Draco’s conjured indoor fireworks, which sparkle and break above their heads. Ron whoops and claps.

There’s more bangs from outside, and they go to the window to see muggle fireworks in the distance from the village.

Harry turns to Draco, watching the lights paint his delicate features in a kaleidoscope of colours. He’s so painfully beautiful in that moment that Harry feels it like a punch to the diaphragm.

Draco turns to him after a moment, feeling his gaze, and gives Harry a small, secret smile.

So of course Harry has to kiss him.

Later, Harry warns Ron and Hermione to put protective wards up around their bed before they go to sleep. And it looks like the ones he cast are effective, because the alarm doesn’t go off all night.

* * *

Draco’s drifting. Nothing around him.

And then suddenly, there is.

He’s in a forest. The trees are thick and heavy overhead, so it’s hard to tell what time of day it is beyond the fact that it’s mostly dark.

There’s a light ahead of him, through the trees. And Draco knows without having to see him, that it’s from Harry’s wand.

“Harry!” he calls, and chases the light.

But the light keeps dancing away from him, slipping on through the trees, never faster or slower than he goes. Draco can’t seem to get closer no matter what he does.

Why won’t Harry wait for him? Every now and then Draco thinks he hears Harry’s voice on the wind, so close and yet the light never gets nearer.

He starts to sob, feeling afraid and lost and cold and just wanting to go home, wherever that may be. But _Harry_ is his home.

Just when he’s starting to despair, Draco jerks awake.

He’s in bed, Harry’s beside him, everything’s okay.

After a moment, Harry rouses slowly, blinking awake. It must be the charms he put around the bed to ensure he wakes when Draco does. There’s no alarm if Draco doesn’t actually try to leave the bed, but his rousing seems to tug on the charm to give Harry some internal warning.

Harry blinks at him groggily, a little frown maring his brow. Then he reaches out and pulls Draco to his chest, octopusing himself around him. Harry hums in contentment as soon as he has Draco close, and drops back off to sleep immediately.

Draco’s heart swells. He looks up to watch Harry sleep, how his face is lax and free of any worries. It’s as though the feeling wants to tear itself out of Draco’s chest with how intense it is then.

He tucks himself back in close, and settles back off to sleep, and is no longer plagued by dreams.

* * *

Ron and Hermione leave on the second of January, Hermione babbling about how she’s going to look into the curse when she gets back and bemoaning the loss of access to the Hogwarts library.

Ron just gives Harry a hug and says in a low voice, “he’s not the worst person you could’ve chosen,” jerking his head towards Draco, who’s accepting a hug from Hermione with a look of surprise on his face.

Harry beams at him and squeezes him in for another hug.

The house is quiet without their presence, though Draco makes sure it doesn’t stay that way for long. He drags Harry along into an apparition to take them upstairs.

They land, Harry slightly off balance from the way Draco grabbed him. Draco shoves him back so Harry stumbles and lands on the bed.

“Do you know,” Draco says, climbing into his lap to kiss Harry silly before he tears Harry’s jumper off, “how much I’ve wanted to have you cock so hard in me that I scream? There’s only so much _Muffliato_ can do, you know.”

Harry is instantly hard, and joins in the clothes ridding with equal fervour.

Draco barely takes the time to finger himself open, Harry staring up at him from where he’s laying back against the pillows as Draco straddles his hips.

He’s glorious, his hair loose and falling around him like a pale curtain. Harry smoothes his greedy hands all over him, murmuring praise as Draco bites his lip and fucks his own fingers.

Then Draco’s slicking Harry’s cock up and holding it in place as he sinks down onto it.

“Ohh…” Draco sighs, his head falling back, his expression melting into bliss as though he’s missed this more than anything even though he had it just last night.

Draco starts to fuck himself on Harry’s cock, clenching around Harry as his body works in a way that has Harry digging his fingers into Draco’s thighs.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah,” is falling from Draco’s mouth in a litany of little cries which he doesn’t seem to be able to control.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry pants, his hand coming to rest over Draco’s heart as Draco rides him. It’s like a golden star in a pale sky, the pair of them complimenting each other beautifully.

As Harry’s fingers slip, he can feel the line of one of Draco’s scars, and almost lets it distract him, before he remembers that they’re different now. Any pain Harry caused in the past Draco has clearly forgiven. It’s time for Harry to forgive himself.

Draco doesn’t seem to notice his momentary distraction, he’s too busy splitting himself repeatedly on Harry’s cock. One of his hands is clutching his own hair, his head slightly tilted back and his eyes closed. His hand slides up himself, brushing over ribs, a nipple, his throat, until Draco sinks a finger into his own panting mouth. It’s the most erotic thing Harry’s ever seen.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Harry says, and he sees Draco’s lips twitch into a smile.

His stormcloud eyes open and he fixes Harry with a searing look as he draws his finger out, letting it drag his bottom lip down as it goes.

“Do you like to watch me, Harry?” he asks, breathless.

And goddammit he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Harry grabs him and flips them, Draco going down in a whirl of pale hair and a delighted gasp. Harry grabs his thighs, pushing them apart as he slams in. Draco screams.

“Fuck, you know exactly how gorgeous you are, don’t you?” Harry murmurs, watches the way Draco’s back arches in response, how one hand grips the sheets near his head while the other settles on Harry’s chest.

And he’s whimpering Harry’s name, needy and broken and so wonderfully ruined. His head is thrown back as Harry pounds him into the mattress, each cry high and torn.

And if Harry could save one image and forget all the rest, it would be this. Draco Malfoy arching beneath him, face split in pure pleasure and voice unrestrained.

“God, I want you,” Harry tells him, sees how the words affect him. “All the time. Even when we’re doing something innocent, all I can think of is having you.”

Draco keens, hand slipping down to jerk himself. Harry leans in and sucks a mark to his neck, because even though it feels immature to give someone a hickey, he wants to see it on Draco in some primal way. See him claimed. Marked.

Draco comes pretty quickly after that to Harry’s encouragement of “yes, sweetheart, just like that.”

Harry manages to hold on long enough to make sure Draco’s fully satisfied before he spills inside him. He buries his face in Draco’s neck as his hips keep twitching forward, little shuddering moans falling from his mouth.

They still eventually, and Harry pulls out to flop down beside Draco. They lay there, panting and filthy until Draco spells them clean.

Then Draco stretches like a cat and rolls into Harry, almost purring with how satisfied he seems.

“Better?” Harry asks, amusement tickling his voice.

“Much,” Draco sighs.

* * *

The curse finally seems to be giving signs of breaking. It’s weaker, frailer. Of course this can make it more dangerous, like a wounded animal likely to lash out. But Draco’s good and is careful not to take any risks.

Harry hovers of course, ready to throw up a shield around them both at the slightest hint of trouble, but there is none.

“What will we do when we go back?” Harry asks one night when they’re laying in bed together after mutual, very satisfying orgasms.

He’s drawing patterns on Draco’s bare back with his fingertips, each pass making something warm curl inside Draco.

“Well we’re obviously going to cause a scandal,” Draco says, finding that the idea of ruining his name doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. “Kiss in public and other outrageous things.”

There was a time, when his reputation was all that mattered. But since being a Death Eater, there’s not many ways to sink much lower. Being gay can hardly compare, despite some of the more conservative views among the older of their kind, which pop up especially in pure-blood families of course. Still, he’ll have bagged the Chosen One, Harry Potter, so he hasn’t done too badly for himself.

Harry laughs at his words, and squeezes him close to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Sounds good,” he agrees. “I’ll fight your father at dawn.”

Draco smacks him on the chest despite his own smile.

Draco should’ve known, that it was too good to be true.

* * *

Harry wakes suddenly, and doesn’t know what’s wrong for a moment. Then he realises the bed’s empty beside him, and all his alarm bells go off. Not the actual alarm bells he conjured for just such an occasion. No, those are ominously silent. How did Draco leave the bed without setting them off?

Unless… no. He wouldn’t have broken them himself would he? Why would he do that? He would have had to be under the influence of the curse to do such a thing.

Which, Harry realises as he’s scrambling across the room for his robe and wand, is probably exactly what he was. It must have affected Draco before he came to bed, made him sleepwalk while awake, snuck through the barrier as Draco carried it in with him, have had Draco feign sleep, wait until Harry was unaware, and then followed its whims.

Harry tears through the house, calling Draco’s name desperately. But he’s nowhere to be found.

Rain is pouring down outside, beating the windows and roof along with the roaring wind, no doubt turning the snow slushy. Harry pauses as he considers the storm. Then rushes to get a pair of shoes on.

It’s torrential outside. Harry spells his glasses free of water, but he’s too distracted to cast a spell to keep the rest of him dry. He circles the perimeter of the house, and after a moment, he curses himself and casts _hominem revelio_.

It’s not exact, but it does tell him that Draco is at least in the area, if that’s his signature it’s reading. Harry relaxes with the knowledge that Draco hasn’t gone far.

Thunder rumbles above, making Harry look up. After a little while, lightning cracks across the sky, and by it’s light, a figure is revealed standing on the roof. Harry’s stomach feels like it just fell through his feet.

“Draco,” he murmurs, eyes wide with fright, able to pick out Draco’s outline against the dark sky now he knows where it is.

Draco’s standing quite still, robe whipping around him, and Harry hurries inside to get up to him.

The roof is flat, but Draco’s not on that part. When Harry reaches him, he’s balanced on the strip between two sloping sides that extends from the east wing.

“Draco!” Harry screams against the wind, scrambling out onto the slippery tiles.

Draco turns to him. And smiles. The scream that Harry wants to release gets lost somewhere in his throat.

Draco’s eyes are entirely black. There’s no pupil, no anything, just dark voids of liquid nothing, shiny in the light of Harry’s wand like that of an insect.

“Harry...” Draco says, and it’s that awful voice from before, the one that makes Harry feel like he’s been licked by something rotten, that makes his skin crawl. “Come with me, Harry.”

Harry decidedly does _not_ want to go wherever this thing inside Draco wants to. And he’ll burn the world if it takes Draco from him.

“Draco,” Harry yells as more lightning flashes over overhead, illuminating the scene. “You have to fight it. Don’t let it take you. You’re stronger than this.”

Draco gives him that crazed smile again, his hair pasted to his skin and his clothes to his body as the wind and rain batters at them. Harry feels sick with fear.

And Harry can’t lose him. Not him too. He always loses the ones he loves the most, and Harry can’t do it again. His father, his mother, Sirius, Lupin, Dumbledore, now Draco, teetering on the edge of insanity and looking like this thing is moments away from tearing him apart.

“It’s quiet here,” Draco tells him, and oh his voice has gone back to normal, is the most comforting thing in the world. Harry closes his eyes against it, feels the tears come. “It’s so peaceful. Come sleep, Harry. You won’t have to hurt anymore. They’re all here, waiting for you. We can join them.”

And Harry doesn’t have to ask who Draco means. The ones he lost. The ones he misses so much. Harry opens his eyes.

“No,” Harry says, voice firm. “This house will trap us here. We won’t be with them, Draco. They are beyond. And we deserve a gentle ending here in the now. I can make you so happy here in this world. You need to fight it.”

Draco smiles again, but this time it’s less crazy. Just a little sad.

“I hope you can join me some day,” he says, voice the softest whisper.

Harry sees what’s about to happen before it does and he’s opening his mouth as Draco closes those awful eyes of his… and lets himself fall.

The scream Harry lets out rivals the storm’s and it slams out of him. His power. An uncontrollable wave that batters the house and that tainted thing Harry senses in it.

It reaches out and catches Draco’s body as it falls, because it doesn’t matter that they’re only four floors up, the house _will_ make sure Draco breaks. But Harry bundles him up, drags him back to Harry as the house lets out a splintering moan.

And Harry doesn’t let up even as Draco reappears over the edge of the roof, drifts towards Harry as he braces himself against the awful presence that rises up to counter his attack.

It doesn’t stand a chance.

Harry stumbles forward and catches Draco’s limp body. And breaking the curse is so secondary to this, to holding Draco safe against him, that he barely even registers as it shatters against the onslaught of his terrible feelings. His power’s never been like this, and heartbreak always was the best way to drive away the darkness. Just like when Voldemort possessed him after Sirius’ death. Because never is love felt so strongly as when it’s ripped away from you.

As the curse breaks there’s a flash of lightning, and the storm ceases with it. Wind and rain dying down to nothing as Harry tries to support Draco’s lolling head.

“Draco… Draco, no, please,” Harry’s sobbing as Draco’s eyes stay closed.

Draco doesn’t respond, and Harry lets out a wail of terrible pain. And he wants to choke on it, wants to scream against this awfulness. He wants to break, wants to drown, wants to run. Anything not to have this feeling.

But when Harry feels for a pulse he does find one, and he sags with relief. Draco still won’t wake up though. And he doesn’t stir as Harry stands, carefully gets them off the roof and back into the house.

They’re both still sodden as Harry goes into their bedroom. He spells them both dry before he lays Draco out on the bed. Harry tries _rennervarte_ and several other spells to wake Draco, but he still sleeps on.

And what if this is the alternative to losing him completely? This awful sleep? Harry cursed to stay by his comatose side as Draco slumbers on.

Harry can’t face the thought, so he goes to the fire and floo calls Pansy.

* * *

Draco feels heavy. His mouth is dry and his body aches. He struggles to open his eyes.

“Hey there, wanker.”

Pansy’s voice is a comfort, and Draco uses it to focus on, forces himself to open his eyes. She swims into his vision.

“Harry?”

At the sound of his voice Pansy hurries to get him a glass of water, and it’s as she steps back that Harry’s revealed, fast asleep in an armchair at his bedside, just far down enough that Pansy’s able to get to Draco to do her work. Draco feels an aching love for him in that moment.

Pansy returns with the water and helps him sit up to drink it.

“Why does everything hurt?” he groans.

“Having a curse take you for a ride will do that to a body,” Pansy says conversationally.

She seems completely unbothered by the topic, which must mean that the danger has passed. No matter how flippant Pansy is, she does care about him.

“What happened?” Draco asks, his eyes on Harry as he sleeps.

“Well the curse possessed you,” Pansy says, seating herself on the edge of his bed and grabbing his hand to check his pulse. “Thought you’d like a jaunt in the rain and a brief attempt at flying.”

“I flew?” Draco asks, amazed.

“No, you fell,” Pansy replies. “Launched yourself off the roof like the giant twerp you are. Good thing Potter has quick reflexes and more power than any one person should have. He caught you and smashed through the curse in the same breath.”

Merlin, it really hits Draco that’s he’s dating the most powerful wizard of the age in that moment. Draco watches Harry sleep, feeling fond and very smitten.

Pansy snorts.

“Shut up, cow.”

“Make me, dickhead.”

* * *

Harry sticks close to Draco as they make the journey back to England, feeling especially protective. Draco doesn’t seem to mind. In fact he looks rather smug about it.

Draco comes to Harry’s flat rather than going home, stating that he has to see if Harry’s abode is fit for fucking before they do anything else. He seems to find the flat amusing, and manages to hold back any comments about its size, finally stating that “it has nice high ceilings and is plenty airy” which is sweet considering he’s used to massive stately homes rather than two bed flats with only a little square terrace as outdoor space.

They spend the night at the flat, and then Draco declares that his parents have invited them to the manor for lunch — which Draco no longer lives in, having a three storey house in the city — and Harry has to come along.

Harry pouts and tries not to throw a tantrum about this, but ends up agreeing with little fuss. He’s not fond of being apart from Draco at the moment.

They floo directly into the drawing room of the Malfoy Manor at one o’clock, and Narcissa Malfoy stands and sweeps over to her son to press a kiss to each of his cheeks. Lucius is behind her, and slows to a stop when he notices Harry standing there. His lip curls. Harry feels his stomach sink. But in the end Lucius gives him a stiff little nod, which is honestly more than Harry was hoping for.

Lunch is taken in the dining room, which still gives Harry the chills. It’s slightly awkward, what with Lucius mostly silent and Harry not knowing which topics are conversational landmines, so not saying much either. Narcissa is nice enough though. She asks Harry about his job at the Ministry, and says she hopes he’ll come with Draco to visit them in France some time, so maybe Draco was being honest about her having a change of heart about him.

Draco seems happy to see his mother even if he’s indifferent to his father. But when they retire to the sofas and Lucius asks if Harry feels sufficiently up to the task of pleasing Draco — Harry choking on his coffee at the question — Draco stands abruptly and makes their excuses.

They are of course spotted holding hands walking up Marylebone High Street three days later, and as they both predicted, The Prophet has a field day. They barely keep it to the gossip section either, the photo of Harry leaning in to whisper something into Draco’s pink tipped ear gleefully splashed across the front page. Lucius Malfoy is especially thin lipped when they go back to the Manor for Sunday lunch that week. Harry fidgets and tries not to feel like he’s about to be hexxed at any moment. Draco’s the one who ends up doing the hexxing, but that’s of Rita Skeeter when she jumps out at them as they’re coming out of Flourish and Blotts with a book Draco ordered a while back.

“Oh sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all as Harry doubles up with laughter at the sight of Rita Skeeter emitting loud popping noises as boils spring up all over her. “You took me by surprise.”

Harry knows for a fact Draco saw Skeeter lurking outside the bookshop, but he’s not going to be the one to say anything.

During the weeks after their return they hardly spend a night apart. Harry mostly goes to Draco’s; a surprisingly light and airy house that has none of the darkness of Grimmauld Place. Its furniture is still all very regal and expensive, plush rugs and chaises dotted about the place, but it’s a far cry from Malfoy Manor, which Harry still finds creepy.

Harry likes the plants Draco has, potted palms and complicated little ferns. He watches Draco water them with a calmness about him, as though caring for a living thing centres him.

“Merlin’s tits, you should just move in already,” Draco says as Harry’s about to do a run home to grab more clean underwear.

Harry stares at him, not quite believing what he just heard, and Draco’s mouth goes into an annoyed little line as he crosses his arms and looks away. Although he looks irritated, it’s actually a sign of his insecurity, and Harry rushes to reassure him.

“I’d like that,” he says, and sees the tension leak from Draco’s shoulders.

Ron sends him a howler when Harry writes to tell him the happy news, asking how he’s supposed to relax with a cup of tea with Harry when he’s half expecting Malfoy to hex him six ways from Sunday.

While the howler’s still yelling an owl from Hermione arrives, apologising profusely for Ron’s bad manners and saying they’d of course be delighted to visit Harry in his new home. It doesn’t improve Draco’s mood.

So Harry moves in. Draco seems more settled once he does, like knowing Harry’s always going to be there grounds him. Harry supposes they’re sort of making up for the slightly shoddy families they had growing up. Harry the orphan and Draco pawned off to Voldemort by his father.

Either way he’s happy.

* * *

Draco has of course been raised to appreciate power. But that’s not why he loves Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it! Yay! So that was my first foray into the drarry fandom, thank you for having me. I think I'll stay :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left comments, kudos and bookmarks, really makes a difference.
> 
> You can find me being bisexual and dramatic [here](https://ewokthrowdown.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! Never written Drarry before so would love to know how this is received.
> 
> You can find me falling down other flights of stairs into different fandoms on my [Tumblr](https://ewokthrowdown.tumblr.com/), where I also take writing prompts :)


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